Kryptonite
by BadaBingxBadaBoom
Summary: No wings. Max is a homeless teenage girl living on the streets when a rumble with some guys lands her in a fostor home with six other kids. Now she has to adjust to high school, boys, social mess ups, and still be able to figure out her mystery. Fax
1. Chapter 1: Being a Good Citizen

**Hey all! Okay, this is mt first Max Ride fanfic, and the first few chapters are going to be a little dark. Not as much Max humor, but I'm trying to incorporate that in. I really have nothing to say, except that there will be Fax, but not at the start. And that's all, I think.**

**Disclaimer: JP owns it, not me. I'm not middle-aged.**

**As always,**

**{--Inky--}**

**Oh, and the stuff in italics are Max's thoughts. Just to clarify things.**

* * *

**Kryptonite**

**Chapter One: Being a Good Citizen**

**Max POV**

Does karma really exist?

Has anyone ever actually tested it?

Because I don't think karma is real. I don't believe in Fate either. I believe that there is a certain amount of bad crap to be distributed every day, to everyone around this world. And it doesn't matter if it's given fairly, so long as it's gone by the end of the day.

My theory works. It explains why some people get all the breaks, all the glamour, all the good, while some people have to live on the streets in disgusting rags and dig food out of dumpsters, hoping that maybe one of those people walking past will feel bad for them and toss out a bill or two. Those unlucky people get their share of crap and have to deal with someone else's too, while that someone else gets off scot-free.

I've tried millions of times to reason with myself, convince my inner voice that something amazing is going to happen after all the depressing shit, and I always come to the same conclusion:

Life sucks, so take what you can get while it's still there.

This reality check brought to you by me, Maximum Ride. And before you ask if my parents were high when they named me, I named myself, on my eighth birthday. It was my gift to myself, the only one I received that year.

I'm sixteen now. Still not much better off now as I was when I was eight, but I hold my own. It's what I was taught to do.

"Happy Sweet Sixteen, Max," I muttered darkly to myself, blowing out the tiny flame spouting from my lighter. I tucked it carefully into the inside pocket of my jacket and cut across the dimly lit street to Chloe's.

Somehow I had landed a part-time gig as a waitress at Chloe's, a grungy little bar on the rougher side of the city. Most places that were the least bit respectable and safe wouldn't employ a dirty street kid like me, because we're all thieves and prostitutes and murderers. Yeah, sure whatever. I was lucky the pothead that owned this place had taken my word that I was nineteen and hadn't asked for any ID. I don't have any, never have. I could be the long-lost princes of Belgium and I wouldn't know it.

_Pshh, I wish._

My first few nights on the job were rough, and I almost got into a couple bar fights over something some drunk said to me, but I learned that things run smoother if you just keep you head down and your temper buried deep. Really deep. A couple of the other girls were nice enough, and managed to wheedle me up onto the stage to sing a couple songs. They all said I was really good and now, every night, they push me up and I sing, just because they want me too. Plus, I get paid extra for it, so what the heck? Any extra money is welcomed with open arms.

I reached the front door to the bar, pushing it open and slipping inside. Heat splashed across my cheeks, probably turning them pink. Immediately, the subtle scent of stale alcohol and cigar smoke hit my nose, and I wrinkled it.

Nasty.

My footsteps sounded loud to me ears against the grey cement floor as I hurried down the hall to the soundproof door at the end. I ducked through the beaded curtain hanging from the ceiling and twisted the handle. The heavy door swung open easily.

A heavy beat pounded into my eardrums. I moved through the crowds, trying desperately to settle the ugly snare of nerves in the pit of my stomach. I don't do well in crowds. My paranoia has me constantly checking my shoulder and my claustrophobia makes me cringe at any type of containment. I was grateful to see that my ratty old jeans and blue button down didn't stand out too much.

One of the other waitresses, Vanessa, met me as I ducked behind the bar. She looked me up and down, lips pursed in disapproval.

"What?" I fingered the worn cuffs of my shirt. I didn't look _that_ bad. I mean, I've definitely looked worse.

"You look so... boarding school," she decided. I raised an eyebrow at her and held my arms out.

"Fix me then." She smirked and moved forward to roll my sleeves up to my elbows, exposing my lightly tanned forearms, which she declared were sexy. I rolled my eyes at her. How are arms sexy? She moved on to my buttons but paused.

"You have a shirt underneath, right?" When I nodded, she unbuttoned all the way down to my bellybutton so that my camisole showed, along with a bit of cleavage. I willed myself not to blush. It's not like I had none; I just wasn't exactly the type of girl who used her assets to get places. Mine were always tucked away, covered in a baggy t-shirt or under a jacket. I didn't want people flocking to me; I would rather they all just stayed away.

Vanessa untucked my shirt tails and adjusted them so that they hung a certain way over my jeans.

"There." She handed me a notebook and tucked a pencil behind my ear. I smiled my thanks at her and waved as I moved over to my section of tables, flipping my thick blond braid over my shoulder in a sad attempt to hide my collarbones. It didn't work too well.

_Having an actual girl friend might be good for me..._I shook that absurd thought out of my head. Vanessa likes quiet Max, who is not me. A person would have to be pretty damn patient to deal with the real Max in all her snarky, paranoid glory.

*******************************

Six hours later, my feet were killing me in my Converse, Real Max was begging to come out and put these sexist pigs in their places, and I knew I could probably use a drink.

_No!_ I screamed at myself. _No drinks, no matter what. _Alcohol slows down the senses and makes you the perfect target out there, in the alleys where no one can see you. Being vulnerable, in any way, is the worst mistake a person could make.

That's what happened to Scottie, the alcoholic ten year old that used to live across from where I crash every night.

I grabbed some random guy's wrist and checked his watch, ignoring his advances when he saw me. My shift was over, and I wanted to go before anyone else realized I had yet to perform tonight. I pushed towards the bar. Some drunken guy grabbed my ass, so I spun around and glared at him. He was grinning and I so wanted to hit him, but that would lose me my job, so I settled for a ground-out threat.

"Touch me again, and I'll castrate you with a rubber band." I'm sure his eyes got huge, but I didn't stick around to see it. I was already at the bar when his beer bottle hit the ground after slipping out of his hand.

Becky, one of the higher-ups, was sitting on a bar stool, sipping vodka from a wine glass. I threw my notebook into the drawer and grabbed my coat from its hook. She got up and swayed over to the cash box. She was tipsy, but it didn't affect her when she counted me my cash. I took it, slipping it into my pocket along with the tips from the night. I got paid by the day, on a request from me. Just in case I couldn't make it one night; I wouldn't lose any pay for calling in sick or not showing up.

"I'm heading out, Becky," I told her as I zipped up my jacket.

"See ya tomorrow, Max," she replied, lighting up a cigarette. I shook my head. Smoking? And drinking? The girl was just asking for cancer.

I left through the back door so no one would see me go, clutching the lapels of my jacket closer to my face as the cold October wind hit me. I tugged out the elastic holding in the ends of my hair and ran my fingers through the plaits, enjoying the feeling of the wind in my hair when it was completely loose. My breath was hot in the air, making little clouds as I jogged towards the end of the back alley.

"Hey!" A voice shouted behind me, and I froze. Instinctively, I ducked behind a nearby bank of trash cans and watched as indistinct figures moved out into the light.

There were three of them. It was obvious that the two bigger guys were pushing the smaller guy around.

Well, not exactly smaller. He was just as tall as the other two, but where they were beefy, he was lean, wiry. He looked like he could take a hit or two, and throw some, but it was two on one and things weren't looking good for him.

One of the guys slammed him up against the wall, and I winced. Brick isn't exactly soft.

"What'cha doin' out here all alone, buddy?" The other guy slurred. He was drunk.

Shocker.

Was everyone except me drunk tonight?

The smaller guy bit out a reply, but I was too far away and couldn't hear it right.

"You got an attitude, don'cha there pretty boy? You know any chicks? Me n' Jon here are bored tonight." Jon, the guy pinning the kid to the wall, laughed a little and shook him hard, so that his head smacked against the wall. He leaned into the kid's ear, trying to whisper, but even I could still hear it.

"Real bored." His voice was so sick, like he enjoyed the thought. It was enough to make me pissed enough to do something stupid. Not that it takes much.

In a split-second decision, I stood out from behind the trash cans and sauntered over to the three guys. Confidence leaked from every step. I was sure that I could take these two idiots, and, if worse came to worse, the kid too. But I was on his side, so he shouldn't turn on me. I hoped.

"Hey." Three heads whipped in my direction at the sound of my voice. Two sadistic smirks appeared that made my blood boil, and one shocked stare. The kid was obviously wondering if I was absolutely crazy or just suicidal.

Crazy? Maybe. Suicidal? Nope.

Jon let the kid go, stepping back to appraise me next to his vile friend.

Now that I was closer, I could tell that the kid wasn't really a kid. He was around my age, maybe older. Olive skin, black, black hair, dark eyes. Basically, the opposite of me and my tanned complexion, blond hair and light brown eyes. He was in all black, practically blending into the shadows he stood on the edge of.

I came to a fluid stop next to Shadow Boy, defiantly putting my hands on my hips.

"Too weak to pick on anyone but innocent kids, you douche bags?" Real Max was definitely back, and she was bitchier than usual.

Jon nudged the other guy. "Looks like pretty boy does know some chicks, Vince." Vince didn't answer because his eyes were stuck on my chest. I scowled, and my glare intensified, boring holes onto the two of them. Jon flinched back infinitesimally.

Score: Max, 1. Douche Bags, 0.

"I don't know him." I jerked my thumb back at Shadow Boy. "I'm just being a good citizen and telling you to go pass out somewhere and die."

"Feisty," Vince commented, and I sneered at him. It's a good thing no one had ever told me I would ruin my pretty face that way.

"Awe, don't be like that baby," Vince cooed and stepped forwards to grab my arm. I reacted instantly. Really, it's not my fault; it was instincts. Plus, I was protecting myself.

I punched him in the face and broke his nose. Again, self-defence! Blood gushed out and he dropped my arm to try and stop it.

"Head wounds always bleed a lot," I told him sweetly, but it was a malicious sweetness that I had perfected over the years. Beside me, Shadow Boy chuckled lowly.

"You bitch!" Jon advanced on me, but I saw him first and raised my fists defensively.

"I dare you," I mocked, and he stopped, reconsidering. He glanced back at Vince, then he backed away and pulled him up to half drag him back down the alley.

"Bitch," he spat over his shoulder. I rolled my eyes.

"I heard you the first time!" I called after him and he just scowled. My eyes followed them until they turned the corner and were out of sight. It fell silent. I didn't turn; I just waited for a 'Thank you', or a 'That was awesome!' from behind me. It never came. Irritated, I spun around and, not once looking at him, continued back the way I had been heading before this little spat.

"You're welcome!" I snapped over my shoulder at him as I turned the corner onto the street. My fists were clenched at my sides and I almost wished that Jon _had _gone after me, so I could just let out all my frustrations. Shadow Boy ran to catch up with me, and I heard him coming so I hid in the shadows cast by a dumpster and let him run past. The cold air was helping to slow down my racing heart and lessen the adrenaline rush, so I took a longer way home to prolong the clarity. It felt insanely good. I barely payed any attention to where I was headed. I knew this city in and out, in the light and the dark. It's sketched into my brain.

I just don't know the people in it very well.

********************************

I guess Jon and Vince weren't too happy with me, which is why they recruited a couple of buddies and followed me on my way home, waiting until the streets were entirely deserted before starting round two.

One of them came at me from the left, and I managed a kidney shot before another one had me pinned. His stale beer breath was hitting me in the face, tugging on my gag reflex. I struggled, of course, but he had at least a hundred pounds on me and was stronger. Finally, I managed to knee him in the junk. His eyes popped open to the size of, um, dinner plates, and he groaned, letting my wrists go. I flipped him off me and was on my feet in seconds, peeling off down the street. I had no idea where I was headed, but my inner voice told me anywhere was better than back there.

Some one was yelling at someone else to get up, and then they were both running after me. I spotted another one up ahead to my left, so I veered off into the nearest alley on the right. I burst out of the end of that alley, sweating profusely. It had been a long time since I had to run this hard. I tried weaving through the stopped traffic, avoiding the three men who were constantly on three different sides of me. That slowed them down for a moment, but not a long enough moment. Inwardly, I prayed that someone had the brains to see that I was in trouble.

I was tired and hungry and sore, and I knew I couldn't defend myself well enough against a group of them. I could almost see what they wanted from me, given that brief look into their thought processes back at Chloe's and it made me shudder.

I skidded into a dark alley, pressing against the cool brick wall, trying to slow my breathing so they wouldn't hear me. I waited until they had all passed before I pushed off, setting my hands on my knees and wiping the sweat off my forehead. I was out of shape!

Note to self: Work on that of you plan on being a 'good citizen' again.

Something crunched behind me and my eyes flew open. Then I saw it.

How easily the first guy let me go, how the three men were all on three different sides in the streets around me, how they all just ran past me oblivious, even though I was panting like a race horse.

They weren't chasing me; they were herding me.

Too late, I spun and another guy slammed me into the wall. I could see the blood run down my forehead and over my eye, and then he hit me in the back of my head and took out my knees with a bat, most likely. The hands that had been holding me up disappeared, letting me fall forwards. I landed with one cheek resting in a puddle. It had rained last night, I guess.

I started losing consciousness. The walls around me, the bags of garbage, everything went all blurry, and I could distantly hear sirens and people screaming. Police talking into their walkie-talkies, someone crying and talking at the same time. Blue and red lights were flashing, melding together. Someone leaned down and asked me if I was okay.

_Do I look like I'm okay?_ I thought, and I struggled to make my lips say it, but I couldn't. They wouldn't form the words.

More sirens. More lights. Several set of hands checked my scrapes, from hitting the concrete so many times, prodding at the back of my skull and making me hiss in pain. They drew back, but not for long. The edges of my vision went black.

Tunnel vision.

I started panicking. Those were paramedics, and they were going to take me to a hospital! I had to stay awake, see where I was going, memorize the turns so I could run if I had to. I fought tooth and nail against the blackness, but it won. And the only thing I could think before I lost consciousness?

_Aw, crap._

* * *

**Was it good? Did ya like it? Tell me these things! **

**That's right. **

**One word.**

**_Review._**

**And I bid you adieu.**


	2. Chapter 2: Hospitals Eck

**I love you people!!!!!! Seriously. All those happy-making reviews I got from you was so sweet! I was reading through them and I had this huge retarded smile plastered on my face, and I kept squealing like a little girl when I saw there were _more_, and then I realized that I probably sound like an insane person(no offense, you guys are wicked) so I quit sqealing out loud and started doing it in my head. That went on for, like, ten minutes straight. **

**It was an event to see.**

**Anyway, here's chapter two. It took me a while to get this one typed out from where I had written it in my notebook, 'cause I'm working on chapter three so I chose to do that instead of type on this one. And I know that I'm posting these chappies really close together, and that's cool and all, but don't expect chapter three as fast. I'm not even done it yet. So just, sit tight while I work my buns off.**

**If writing gave you abs, I would have the Terminator beat for sure.**

**Okay, review response time:**

**Drusilla Nite: Thank you! I like saying it. Poeple will come up to me and be like "What's your name?" and I'm all "INKY!!" and then they give me wierd looks and back away slowly. It's _da bomb._**

**xTheSilentOnex: Honestly, I want to know what happens to Max too. Just kidding . . . sort of. I have a whole bunch of ideas, and I'm not sure where to put them so they work. But this chapter explains what happens to Max when she passes out, so I'll work from there I guess!**

**eaglegal4: I do? Cool. I wasn't sure if I did Max right, if she was too dark and bitter and not sarcastic enough. But she's kind of a bitter person at the start, so I don't know. Thanks though!**

**Sorry if I don't respond to ALL my reviews. Some just speak for themselves. Just know I LOVE YOU ALL EVEN THOUGH YOU AREN'T LISTED HERE!!!!!!!**

**Disclaimer: Why is it that I never get all the good copyrights for Christmas? I asked for Maximum Ride but JP got it instead. Not fair!**

* * *

**Kryptonite**

**Chapter Two: Hospitals. Eck.**

**Max POV**

It was that annoying, incessant beeping that woke me up. Like a typical teenager, I rolled over and attempted to block it out with a pillow, scrunching my eyes shut.

Then I shot straight up because I hadn't had a fluffy pillow like that in _years_.

Cheerful yellow walls met my panicked gaze, and a really big window with the blinds wide open was spilling sunshine across the room. That immediately recognizable disinfectant smell was everywhere. Flowers sat on a bedside table, along with a tall mug of water with a bendy straw sticking out of it. I took a moment to appreciate this, and then moved on. A TV was mounted on a wall. Sterile, white sheets covered my legs. I felt my heart rate speed up, and so did that beeping. In my groggy state, it took me a minute to realize that it was a heart monitor. Then I groaned. If I was connected to a heart monitor, then I was definitely in a hospital.

I reached my right hand up to run through my hair, but something tugged on it. Looking down, I winced. An IV. Ew.

Needles scare me. The one thing that actually does.

The extra wide wooden door opened slowly, and a man in a white lab coat and two women entered. The man had a stethoscope around his neck and was carrying a clip board, so I felt it was safe to assume that he was a doctor. The first woman, a redhead, was on the short side, in a tight blue suit and heels that looked dangerous. The other woman was Asian, and I liked her better. She was sensibly dressed, not in a skirt but wearing slacks, and she wasn't smiling like she had sniffed crack for breakfast this morning.

The doctor, Dr. Andrew Samuel according to his nametag, stuck out his hand for me to shake. I eyed it down, crossing my arms over my chest and trying to look as menacing as possible in a blue hospital gown with bed head. I only cringed a little when the IV in my hand shifted.

"Sore?" Dr. Samuel asked as the redheaded woman sat down in the lone chair next to my bed. The other woman leaned up against the far wall, watching us all. The doctor sat down on the end of my bed. I shook my head once at him, answering his question. The doctor consulted his clipboard.

"I have a few questions for you Max-"he started, but I cut him off.

"How do you know my name?" I snapped. He looked slightly taken aback at my tone. Get used to it buddy.

"You told us on the way to the hospital dear," the redhead woman soothed, patting my hand. I snatched it away from her. What else had my semi-conscious brain told these people that I don't remember saying?

"Max, I'm curious about some of the scars on your back. They're in some unusual shapes for where they're placed. And the old burns look untreated. What happened to you?" the doctor asked, leaning towards me curiously. I flinched back slightly, blocking the images out of my mind.

Heat. Smoke. Flames licking my calves. The window stuck, even when I tugged on it with my entire body weight. Screaming.

"You don't have to tell us." The Asian woman's voice was soft, snapping me out of my flashback. She had noticed my flinch. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the redhead frown at that.

"I'm not going to." I was mildly surprised at how steady my voice was. Dr. Samuel looked calm, but his eyes were upset. He had really been curious to know my story. The redhead nodded unenthusiastically. She had wanted to know too. These people were nosy, weren't they? An uneasy silence settled over the room.

"Max, I'm Cindy Vaer. She," the redhead gestured to the Asian woman as she introduced her," is Kelly Fu, and we're your social workers. Dr. Samuel had us called when he found no records on you in the systems. We need to know Max. Who are you? Where did you come from? Why hasn't anyone heard of you before?" Kelly was shaking her head at Cindy, and I sighed at all of them.

"My names Max. I'm sixteen. I don't know where I came from," I lied smoothly, years and years of practice on my side. The three of them exchanged glances, as if debating whether to believe me or not, and I put on my best innocent face. Which is pretty convincing, I might add.

"You don't know your parents?"

"Uh-uh."

"No relatives?"

"Nope." Cindy was looking extremely irritated with me now, and I smirked on the inside. She glared at me, like it was my fault that I had no inkling of who my family is. I glared back.

"We can find you a place to stay, until someone stands up and claims you as theirs. If that doesn't happen," Kelly paused, shooting me an apologetic look. "When you're a legal adult, you'll be free to go your own way."

"Do I have a choice?" I asked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it said.

"No." Didn't think so. I shifted my eyes away from all of them, silently fuming. I did _not_ need anyone to look after me. I was doing perfectly fine on my own! Until that dumb kid decided it would be a good idea to wander alone down dark alleys in the middle of the night. Why was I such a nice person?!

"You can't go quite yet though Max," Dr. Samuel said quietly, trying not to set me off. I ignored him. "You have numerous scrapes and cuts that could be infected, and we want to monitor your healing. There is still a chance that you could have a minor concussion." When I didn't answer, he nodded, almost to himself, and stood up. He left the room, the two social workers following close behind him. They kept shooting me glances, and I avoided their eyes.

So went the next few days. I sulked, like a child, and they worried about me, but I couldn't bring myself to care. Nurses checked my vitals, and woke me every few hours to make sure I was just sleeping, annoying the heck out of me, and did other nurse-y things. Dr. Samuel tried several times to pry my life story out of me, but I refused to even acknowledge his presence.

I felt like I was five again, pouting after Jeb wouldn't let me take home any of the fishies out of the fountain in the park.

_Don't think about Jeb. Don't go there Max. Do you want to start bawling like a baby? Then they'd _really _question your sanity._

I didn't sleep well, the four extra days I was there. I kept having nightmares, caused by the memories dredged up by the doctor, and social worker Cindy. I hardly ate, but who could blame me? Hospital food is just gross. By the fourth day, I was ready to scream and jump out the window, I was so bored. And freaked out. Hospitals really scared me. I couldn't help but think that Angel would have been able to bust me out with her Crocodile Tears, which I had taught her. Then I growled at myself for bringing Angel up. It had been seven years since I had discovered the little baby girl, wrapped up in a wet towel and tossed carelessly into a pile of trash bags. Feeling bad for her, I took her home with me, wondering how on earth I was going to feed her. I could barely feed myself most days. But I kept her and raised her because it felt . . . right, somehow. When she was three, she decided she would name herself Angel, because of a story I had made up for her. I thought it fit. She looked like an angel, with her big, baby blue eyes and blonde wispy curls that screamed innocence. She looked up to me a lot, and I felt like Angel's Jeb, the one to show her how to survive. She was my baby, in all the aspects that counted.

But when she was four, I went out to peddle some change off a stranger so we could afford some supper and when I came back, she was gone. I looked for her for days but she never showed up. That was the second time I cried in my entire life. Jeb had been the first.

After that, I dreamed about her a lot, mostly imagining what could have happened to her. My morbid subconscious never produced anything close to the sweet, tearful reunion with her parents that I wanted desperately to believe. Those dreams joined my fire dreams, and now I wasn't getting any sleep at all. And, in turn, I got extremely grumpy and snappy at the nurses, who all hate me now. I'm not sure who wanted me out more: them or myself.

Finally, Dr. Samuel said I could leave. Social worker Cindy appeared at my door, cheerfully informing me I was signed out and everything. Within ten minutes, I was back in my jeans and shirt, which had been cleaned by the hospital laundry people (Thanks guys, by the way), with specific orders from the doc to try and be careful of my stitches, take it easy for 24 hours, and take some Advil if my head starts hurting. I agreed, if only to placate him.

Cindy Vaen ushered me out the wide glass doors of the hospital and to a black Sedan idling on the curb. Kelly was in the passenger seat, and after leaving me in the back seat, Cindy got in the driver's door. She chattered mindlessly while I attempted to take a short nap. No such luck.

"Max?" Kelly asked me from the front. I cracked one eye open, raising an eyebrow in question. She took that as a sign to continue.

"We went to the place you told us about, and retrieved your things. They're in a bag on the seat next to you." I nodded, dismissing her. She turned back around. Sure enough, as she had said, there was a plain black book bag on the seat beside me, and I'm nothing if not curious.

Inside was my tiny collection of clothes, an extra pair of sneakers, my fingerless gloves and hobo hat, a couple of books I had managed to afford over the years, a penlight, one framed picture of me as a gap-toothed toddler, a disposable camera, my second-hand jackknife, some hair elastics, and a few other necessities, like a toothbrush, some bobby pins, and a hairbrush. The contents of my jacket's pockets were there, too: my silver Zippo, a valid bus pass, and that night's wages from Chloe's, wadded neatly into a bundle and secured with a rubber band. My sturdy fleece blanket I had been using for as long as I can remember was folded and fit snugly at the bottom, underneath everything else. I panicked slightly. I had a box, full of the most important things I own, and it wasn't there. Nervously I checked the outside pocket, and found nothing. I pulled everything out, going through it three times, and still didn't find it. This was not good. That box had my entire identity in it! All my money, my reminders of the life I used to have with Jeb, my hospital bracelet with my name on it. And it was gone, as in not here, not in my possession.

I was officially freaking out.

"We're here!" Cindy announced loudly, pulling up to a curb. My eyes darted to her, and she looked curiously back at me. I realized that I was looking really crazy, and if I ever wanted them to leave, I would have to fake being normal.

"Is something wrong, Max?" Cindy asked, and Kelly turned in her seat for my answer.

"No, I'm fine." _Yes, I've lost who I am and I desperately need it back. Now!_

"Just nervous," I lied, smiling a bright grin and hoping that I didn't look as demented as I felt. Or as depressed.

Then, to prove my point, I threw open the car door and hopped out, sliding my few meagre belongings back into the black book bag and onto my shoulder. It felt too light without my safety box in it, and my grin slipped at that thought. Thankfully, Cindy and Kelly didn't notice. They were busy getting out of the Sedan and fussing with files and paperwork and such. I took the moment to evaluate the house in front of me.

It was tall, maybe three stories high, and a light sky blue. The wrap-around porch was obviously Victorian, along with the rest of the house, and done in a light oak wood. The window frames, shutters, and everything else were painted white. A stone walkway branched off of the concrete walkway that led to the front steps, winding around the rose bushes next to the house and into the back yard. The entire place was cute, with its perfectly cut green lawn and quaint little walkways. Very Wisteria Lane, Desperate Housewives like. It was an extremely drastic change from my old place, which had been an abandoned crack house with no heat and boarded up windows.

This was like the Waldorf in comparison.

Kelly appeared behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. I jumped and shrugged it off. I'm not a touchy-feely person, and so far, no one else has caught on to that. I followed Cindy up the walk to the door, feeling like the mouse walking right into the hungry cat's open mouth. We stood there, after the doorbell was rung, and it felt weird. I felt like people were staring at us, like they knew we were two scary-cheerful social workers and an over-paranoid street monkey, checking into a foster home. Inside, something screeched. I tensed, all sorts of images about dungeons and branding irons and shackles flitting through my mind.

Finally, the door opened and a woman stood there, drying her hands on a towel and looking very mom-ish. Nothing about her said "ruthless torturer" to me.

"Yes?" she smiled, glancing at us. She was pretty, for her age. I could tell she was Hispanic or something, her dark hair pulled up and out of her face. Dark brown eyes looked at us, wide and trusting, and a lot like my own. Except my eyes are rarely trusting.

"Mrs. Martinez," Cindy greeted her, shaking her hand.

"Please, call me Val," Mrs. Martinez corrected.

"This is Max," Kelly continued, pushing me ahead a little. I tried my best to look charming and angelic, and it must have worked because she smiled back.

"Oh, yes, Max. We've been expecting you sometime today. I even roped the kids into cleaning the house a little. Not that it helped," she winked at me and ushered us into the house. She pointed up a set of stairs and said, "Your room is the last door on the left, if you'd like to get settled. We'll be in the kitchen finishing up some paperwork if you need anything." I nodded and padded up the stairs in my sock feet. I already liked Val Martinez. She seemed very cool, giving me my space. For that I was grateful.

On my way to the last door on the left, my room I guess, I counted the other doors as I passed them. Ten, including mine and the one at the very end of the hall. They were all a dark mahogany, and some had names on them. One said Nudges, in swirly, multi-colored lettering; another said Gazzy, in blue; Angel, in sparkly pink printing, with a smaller Total underneath; Ella, in green and yellow cursive; and Fang, in plain black block letters.

I wondered if these were nicknames. I mean, Fang? Gazzy? Nudge? Who would name their kids that? I suppose I really shouldn't be talking, seeing as Maximum isn't all that common, but still. Weird much?

My door was blank. Cautiously, I pushed it open as though there was a bomb attached to it. The hinges didn't even creak. I stepped inside slowly, my feet sinking into the shaggy, cream-colored carpet. I must say, I actually liked it. It had that Max Charm.

The walls had been painted a navy blue, with white curtains drawn over tall windows. A cherry wood bed was situated in the middle of the room, a matching cherry wood table next to it. There was a wooden trunk at the foot of the bed that I didn't see at first, so I stubbed my toe on it and swore. Loudly. The window seat under the tall windows was upholstered in white with two swirl blue patterned pillows resting in it. A desk made out of, you guessed it, cherry wood was to the left of the window seat, pushed into the corner, chair and everything. The closet was huge, with shelves and cupboards and racks tucked symmetrically around each other. A dresser was settled underneath the racks, and a full length mirror hung on the wall next to the closet doors. A sort of vanity table was situated around the area.

I dumped my bag out onto the stripped bed and sorted through my stuff. My clothes went into the closet, obviously. I put my poor girl hat and gloves, which had earned me a good share of money on street corners, in a cupboard drawer. My books were left on the desk. The trunk was begging for something on it, so that's where I plopped my fleece blanket down on. Carefully, I took my jackknife and my money and hid them in a pair of socks in the dresser, out of sight. Didn't want anyone finding those on accident. The smaller stuff went into my bedside table. The picture of me at the park, smiling a huge smile that was missing a front tooth, I put on the bedside table, almost longingly. I kind of missed the days where I didn't have to worry about food and shelter and work. I finished by tossing the now empty book bag onto the top of the dresser and closing the closet doors. Even with all my worldly possessions in it, the room still looked barely lived in.

When I was done, I wandered back downstairs and found the big kitchen easily. Cindy and Kelly were gone and Val Martinez was mixing something at the counter. She smiled at me when I entered, put down her spoon and wiped her hands off on her apron, gesturing for me to take a seat at the extra long dinner table. I did. She sat across from me.

"Hi Max. I'm Valencia Martinez, your foster mother, but there's really no need to be so formal. Call me whatever, just not Mrs. Martinez. That sounds too old." She extended her and for me to shake. I shook my head apologetically.

"I'm sorry, I don't..." Mrs. M was cool, but that don't mean beans in my book. She caught on quickly.

"Oh, okay. That's alright. I get it. I should probably fill you in on how things work around here. Why don't you help me finish this batch of cookies, and I'll talk while we work." I chose not to tell her that I couldn't cook _anything_ and stood. She would find out pretty darn fast. Mrs. M handed me a spoon and set me on mixing, which I could actually do, while she added things to the bowl. As promised, she explained at the same time.

"I have five foster kids already, and now you, and I also have a daughter of my own, Ella. She's fifteen this year. Now, as far as the other's, there's Jeff and Nick, who are both sixteen like you, Monique, who is fourteen, Zeke, who is twelve, and his sister, Ariel, who is seven." She added three eggs. "There are two bathrooms upstairs, one for the guys and one for the girls, one on the main floor, and one downstairs." Flour.

"On weekends, curfew for you older one's is midnight, and eleven on school days. The kitchen is free game, when you're hungry, but we have supper every night at six." Sugar.

"I work during the day, as a vet," Oh, so it's Dr. M, then. "So I expect you kids to start dinner. Everyone pitches in for dishes. You're on your own for laundry and cleaning your room." A teaspoon of vanilla.

"I want to be able to reach all my children at all times, so a cell phone will be showing up soon for you. I expect you to carry it all the time, everywhere. School starts in a week for you, on Monday for the others." Suckers. Dr. M tossed in some salt and continued.

"We have a computer in the office that everyone uses. Nick, or Fang, as the kids have affectionately named him, has his own laptop, but good luck convincing him to let you use it. He treats that gadget as though he gave birth to the stupid thing." Chocolate chips, and did they look good.

"No sports in the house. No parties. No muddy shoes on the hardwood or the carpet, and try not to get arrested. The cops around here seem to target my foster kids, for some reason, so be careful of them. And I think that's the basics," she concluded, dusting her hands off. The dough was all mixed, so we moved on to spooning it onto cookie sheets. Dr. M showed me how to do it, chuckling a little at my inability to do anything remotely domestic. It was silent for a while before she attempted small talk.

"So, Max. Tell me about you. Is Max short for anything?" I hesitated answering her, wondering if I should stick to my "lie low, keep your head down" plan.

"You don't have to tell me anything, if you're not comfortable," she apologized, staring fixedly on the little balls of dough lined up on the sheet, like little soldiers lined up for battle. I instantly felt bad; she was a really nice woman, and telling her my name wasn't so horrible, right?

"Max is short for Maximum," I muttered. Dr. M glanced up at me. "Maximum Ride." Her eyebrows rose.

"I named myself. When I was eight. It was for my birthday. I thought it sounded cool." I felt weird, explaining myself to her, but she just nodded in understanding.

"It's a nice name." I knew she was just saying that to make me feel better, but it still worked.

"Thanks." That was it. She didn't pry, didn't pester me with questions until I wanted to pull my hair out. She was satisfied with me telling her my name, nothing more.

I really liked Dr. M.

***************************************

Once we finished baking the cookies, I was given the grand tour, while munching on one of those chocolaty chipped chunks of heaven Dr. M calls cookies.

After the kitchen, there was the living room, with its flat-screen TV, the laundry room, Dr. M's painting room, her office, the upstairs, which I had already explored, and the basement. That place was cool.

A huge entertainment centre dominated the east wall, covered in millions of DVD's, CD's, and Xbox games, which went with the Xbox. Four beanbag chairs and a low-to-the-ground futon were situated around it. An old pool table was set up in one corner, and there was a short bar with a fridge to the side and a microwave sitting on the top. Some amps and a high-quality drum set were spread out off to one side, and an electric guitar rested on its stand. There were posters pasted all over the walls, with subjects ranging from Simple Plan to Rihanna, Pete Wentz to Alex Pettyfer, and even one for the Cirque De Soleil.

Despite the whole claustrophobia-from-being-underground thing, I figured I'd be logging a few hours down here.

By the time we had made the circuit of the whole house, a few of the others were awake and in the kitchen. Well, sort of awake. There was a tall, strawberry blonde boy flipping something in a frying pan by the stove, whistling to himself. A younger blonde boy looked like he was passed out on the table, but he croaked out a "Hurry up!" every few minutes, so he wasn't dead. An adorable little girl with white blonde curls the same color as the passed-out boy was perched on the island with a teddy bear in a pink tutu in her lap. She reminded me of Angel, only a lot bigger.

Apparently, the strawberry blonde was making paninis, whatever the heck those were. And, apparently, the other blonde boy was, and I quote, "So hungry my stomach is devouring itself from the inside out!" To which the strawberry blonde replied with a "Suck it, Gas!" The little girl sighed and shook her head as the two bickered back and forth some more. I laughed and the little girl turned to me. A bright smile erupted across her childish face and she jumped off the counter to throw herself at me.

"Max! Oh, god, Max, I missed you!" she cried, and I patted her blonde curls. There was no way this could be my baby girl. Things like that just don't happen. Carefully, I pulled her long hair back to reveal her neck and, if this really was Angel, the old scar from a cigarette butt she had laid on when she was a baby. It was there, pink and long healed over, and I almost started bawling right there. It _was_ my girl. And she was upset.

"I was so scared, Max. I was just waiting for you to come back, and then there was this man, and he picked me up and took me away. I cried really hard, but he wouldn't stop." I felt the red hot anger bubble up deep in my gut. Angel was sobbing onto my shoulder now, soaking my shirt, and I was crouched down to her level. "He left me in some big office, and a whole bunch of people asked me all these questions, and I wouldn't tell them anything important, like you taught me, so they just assumed stuff and sent me here." Angel sniffled, and I swear my heart actually cracked in two.

I picked her up and sat down on a kitchen chair. She curled up into a ball and buried her face into my neck, just like she used to. We sat there until she calmed down, me rocking her and smoothing her hair, and eventually her sobs faded into hiccups, and then disappeared completely. Angel sat up and wiped her eyes.

"You okay, sweetie?" I asked her quietly and she nodded. She looked a little pale, but otherwise, pretty good.

"Yup. I missed you."

"I missed you too, hun." She smiled again, and then slid off my lap to grab the teddy bear she had dropped on the ground. Something buzzed and I tensed, uneasily glancing around the kitchen.

Dr. M pulled a small grey pager out of her pocket, and glanced apologetically at us.

"Emergency and the clinic, guys. Be careful, try not to hurt anyone, don't run off, and don't blow anything up," she warned sternly, sending hard looks at the two blonde boys. Then she disappeared out the door. We all heard the front door slam shut a minute later.

"Blow stuff up?" I asked stupidly.

"Yup," the younger blonde boy said, grinning. "Explosives are awesome! I'm Zeke, but that's a stupid name. I prefer Gazzy."

"Which is short for the Gasman. Don't ask. Just stay upwind. I'm Iggy, the blind kid who cooks."

"Are you serious? How does that work?" I asked. Iggy just shrugged.

"I'm amazing like that," was his reply.

"Where's Fang?" Angel asked in her sweet, little-girl voice.

Iggy dumped his panini things onto a plate and dropped them in front of Gazzy with scary accuracy. Gazzy attacked them happily.

"Off being his moody, emo self? I don't know. I haven't seen him since last night, 'cause he's up at the butt-crack of dawn every day," Iggy replied, slumping down in a chair across from the Gazzy-saurus. He frowned when he heard all the disgusting noises Gazzy was making.

"He talked to me yesterday," Gazzy admitted, once he had swallowed. It was shocking that he didn't have an entire half a sandwich wedged in his esophagus at the rate he was eating.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Only it was more like yelling. With a lot of swears in it."

"What'd you do?"

I got up and pulled a glass out of a cupboard and poured some water.

"I may have, um, accidentally set his pants on fire." I spit my mouthful of water out, spraying it all over the counter, and laughed. Iggy frowned at Gazzy, disapproval evident on his pale face.

"What!" Gazzy exclaimed indignantly. "It was an accident . . . sort of." Iggy's face never moved. I laughed even harder. "She thought it was funny!" he yelled desperately, pointing over to where I was clutching the counter for support, snorting with laughter. Iggy stared at me for a minute, and then he cracked a smile.

"Nice, man." The two boys' bumped fists while I composed myself, and wiped my spit-water up with a paper towel. Angel rolled her eyes at them as they got into a deep discussion over what kind of ignition Gazzy had used, and how well it worked. She slipped her little hand into mine and pulled me out of the room, to give me a tour. I let her, even though Dr. M had already shown me the ropes, because she looked really excited about it.

She had a story for every room. Like, in the living room, there was one time that Iggy and Fang were fighting, and Iggy's nose started bleeding, so Dr. M made him stick a tampon up it and wear it all day. In the office, Monique, who Angel called Nudge, had gotten a funny email and wanted everyone to read it, so they all sat on her in the office chair and broke the legs off under their combined weight. The stories were funny, but I was happier to see the smile on Angel's face as she told them. It made me feel a lot better to know she had been having fun these past few years.

She begged and pleaded for me to watch a movie with her, and I agreed once she flashed me the Crocodile Tears. We curled up on the couch downstairs and watched _Anastasia_. Angels just laughed at all the scary parts and awed at all the romantic parts. Dr. M called and said she wouldn't be home for dinner, so Iggy ordered pizza in and he and Gazzy joined us downstairs for _The Little Mermaid._ We didn't even make it through, shutting it off and starting Guitar Hero, which I completely schooled Gazzy at. He didn't take it well, accusing me of cheating. I smugly reminded him that I had never played it before, so there was no way I could cheat. He didn't take that well. Needless to say, brownies were promised from Iggy to calm him down.

Angel insisted I tuck her into bed for old time's sake. I did, making sure she had Celeste, her bear, before I shut myself in my own room, lounging on the window seat in my holey sweats. I promised myself that I would get the deets on how Angel is related to Gazzy in the morning.

It occurred to me that I had only met half of the household. Fang had been MIA all day. Monique/Nudge and Ella had slept over at a friend's house last night, so weren't home today. I hoped I got on as well with them as Gazzy and Iggy, but I wasn't holding my breath. I tended to relate to guys more easily than girls. Call me quirky, but it's true.

I lay down under my covers, thinking. For one whole day, I had been Max instead of Maximum. I had been normal.

And it felt kind of cool.

* * *

**There you go. My masterpeice. Or whatever, I don't really know what to call it.**

**You know the drill people.**

**REVEIW. Or Max and the flock will come in the night and draw cows all over your face.**

**I SWEAR THEY WILL!!!**


	3. Chapter 3: Perky Blond

**Hey peoples, sorry I haven't been updating. You know, homework, school, friends, and my uncle just died so there was a week there where I wasn't writing _at all_. So yeah, this is kind of taken a while. mAnd the next chapter probably will too, cause I have to start from scratch. **

**And some of you might be mad at me after this one. For more details, read the bottom of the chapter, after you read the actual chapter. There's spoilers. For this chapter, and for the next. Kind of.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Sadly. *cries***

**Love ya,**

**{--Inky--}**

**Kryptonite**

**Chapter Three: Perky Blond**

**Max POV**

"Is that her?"

"No, that's a monkey. It's just sleeping in her bed. Duh, that's her!"

"She's really pretty.

"I know."

"Like a supermodel pretty. Oh, I know, like Kelly Clarkson when she was blonde! Kelly's got really dark hair now, doesn't she? I wonder how she would look with dark hair. Like chocolate brown, with little blonde streaks and-"

"She doesn't look like Kelly Clarkson at all!"

"She does. A little . . . okay, maybe not. That was the first thing that popped into my head, so relax. She looks kinds like this one girl I once saw—"

"Focus Nudge. Wake her up."

"No! You do it."

"I asked you to."

"Well, you want it done."

"So you do it for me."

"No."

"Do it!"

"No!"

"Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!"

"Okay, fine! I'll do it! Wuss . . ."

"Oh, hurry up."

"Okay, okay, I'm going! Yeesh . . ."

I could hear the two voices, both female, argue and I couldn't quite tell whether they were in my head or actually real. I kind of wanted them to be real, so that I wasn't crazy, but I also didn't want them to be real and end up having two complete strangers watching me while I sleep.

See my dilemma?

"Okay, I'm going to do it . . ."

Someone poked me in the shoulder and I snapped awake, jumping away from them with a squeak and dumping myself off the edge of the bed. I was on the ground for maybe four seconds before I sprang up, doing an instinctive 360 scan for dangers. Nothing, aside from the two wide-eyed girls sitting on my bed and staring at me. I relaxed out of my "warrior stance", not even realizing I had gone into it. They looked harmless enough. The one girl was black, her skin a sort of mocha, chocolate-milky color. She had her crazy-curly brown hair pulled back into a bushy pony, and her dark brown eyes were excited. The other girl had to have been related somehow to Dr. M. She had the dark hair, straightened and hanging around her sweet face, her bangs pulled back into one of those pouf-things, and the dark eyes.

"Hi!" the black girl waved excitedly, smiling widely at me. "You _must _be Max. I mean, you're sleeping in her bed, so it must be you. I was so, _so _sad when Iggy told me that he got to meet you first, because you were here yesterday and I was at Tia's having a sleepover, which was extremely fun! We had popcorn and watched movies and stayed up really late eating gummy worms and playing Truth or Dare. It's going to be so cool having another girl in the house. We can be like, sisters! Ella and I are really close, and with you we can make, like, a secret society that isn't actually a secret! Oh-em-gee, did you know that you're really pretty? 'Cause you are. Really, _really _pretty. Have you ever modeled? You could, so easy. I can't 'cause I have lamby hair, says Gazzy. I mean, my hair is super-curly, but it's not _lamby _is it? Gazzy is _such _a—"The other girl clapped a hand over her mouth, cutting off the babble. I stared in astonishment. How did she _do _that? All in one breath, too.

I bet she could stay underwater for a really long time.

"Sorry. That's Monique, but we call her Nudge, because that's what it takes to shut her up." Nudge gad continued talking underneath the girl's hand, but now she stopped to nod in agreement. "I'm Ella. Mom sent us up here to wake you up." Nudge slapped Ella's hand off her face.

"Which I did!" she yelled. Ella shook her head and stood up, pulling Nudge with her.

"Thanks. I'll be right down," I yawned, stretching my arms above my head like a cat. Ella smiled.

"Be quick. We're leaving in, like, forty minutes," Nude warned. The girl was practically vibrating on the spot with excitement. She nodded once, then bounced out of the room, dragging Ella with her by the wrist.

"Leaving for where?" I asked the empty air, which didn't answer, surprisingly. Grabbing some clothes, I slipped over to the girls' bathroom.

The hot water calmed me, unknotting my tense muscles, and I didn't want to get out but I had to. I threw on my jeans and NYC hoodie, and braided my wet hair to keep it out of the way. Wet, it was a dark brown with random flashes of blond in it, as opposed to its usual golden blond with naturally lighter highlights.

Dr. M was already up, buttering toast and putting it on a plate until she literally had a toast mountain. I snagged a piece and a glass of orange juice and sat down next to Angel, opposite Nudge and Ella. It seemed like none of the boys were up yet. I wondered where we were going, just the girls.

"We're going to the mall today, Max," Angels told me, doing that creepy thing where she almost reads your mind.

"Why?" I took a swig of juice, making a face when it turned out to be somewhat bitter.

"Your closet is a little empty, so Ella volunteered to take you shopping. Nudge refused to miss a trip to the mall, so she's coming, and Angel wanted to go. I was going down today anyways to get some groceries and pick up my dry-cleaning, so we might as well kill two birds with one stone," Dr. M explained, and I barely suppressed a groan.

"Killing is a very violent expression," Angel scolded.

"Oh, sorry. We might as well _mildly injure _two birds with one stone," Dr. M corrected absently, digging in the fridge for another tub of butter. Angel grinned, and shoved her toast in her face, smearing strawberry jam all over her face.

The mall; a small, confined place crowded with hundreds of gossiping, money-blowing, loud, cell-phone-addicted opportunities to go absolutely postal. Oh joy. As if she could sense my dread, Angel looked up and smiled—well—angelically at me. I wrinkled my nose back at her.

When breakfast was finished, Dr. M wrote a note for the boys telling them where we were, and I took the opportunity to steal a couple Pop Tarts for the ride there. What! I'm a growing girl, and I need my nourishment. Plus, I never knew Pop Tarts were so freaking good. We all piled into Dr. M's massive SUV and then we were on our way. I managed to snag a window seat, and I sat staring at all the cute little houses with their white picket fences flash by through the open window. I wished I could fly, because the feeling of the wind blowing across my face and through my hair was amazing. I wanted wings; I could be a bird-girl. I wouldn't mind too much. I could try out for Miss Avian-America.

Too bad things like that don't happen.

Dr. M dropped us off at the main doors with a credit card to max out and a promise to pick us up at four. Once she was safely out of sight, Nudge turned to Ella, and Ella turned to Nudge, and they both squealed loud enough to mess with a bat's head. I rolled my eyes at them. They were such _girls_. Angel and I waited patiently—okay _Angel _waited patiently—for them to finish before we started window shopping. For some strange reason, I let Ella them have the reins on this expedition, which was not my most clever idea.

Ella and Nudge in a mall with a credit card is as scary as a wolverine locked in a meat locker with three litres of caffeine in its system.

We hit Aéropostale first, and they tore that place apart. Next was Bluenotes, then the Garage. The salespeople in American Eagle glared at us as we left, two shopping bags heavier. The Wet Seal place was cool, and I actually managed to pick out some stuff that was Nudge-approved. They dragged me into Anthropology, and West 49, and a whole crapload of other places I don't remember the names of, and we fooled around in Ardéne's for a while. Ella convinced me to pierce my ears, which didn't hurt at all, and they spent another twenty minutes picking out earrings for me. I was more than willing to replace my beat-up old Converse for a new pair, black of course, but I refused a new jacket. This one had character.

We were currently standing in front of the hair salon, with two shopaholics pleading for me to do this for them. I crossed my arms and closed my eyes because Angel, the little traitor, had taught them both Crocodile Tears. They were pulling out all the stops.

"No way. There is no way anyone is touching my hair," I told them stubbornly. I hadn't had a haircut in six years, and I liked my long hair. I didn't need a fancy-schmancy cut. I wasn't that kind of girl.

"We won't ruin it," Angel fake-read-my-mind again.

"Just fix it," Ella placated. I reached up and fingered my thick braid.

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's kind of a hippie cut. You know, long, flat ends, middle part," Nudge observed. Then I made the mistake of opening my eyes. Three sets of Bambi eyes and three pouts stared back at me. And I was down, and they were kicking.

"Fine," I sighed, and Ella and Angel slapped a high-five. Nudge grabbed my wrist and tugged me through the doors.

One hour, a ton of hair clippings, one bottle of blond highlights, and a hot pink streak or two later, I was declared "hip".

The hairdresser had thinned out my long hair, giving me a few layers, and framed my bangs around my face. The shortest piece rested just on my cheekbones, the rest gradually getting longer and melting back into my layers. Then, to please Angel, I agreed to let her put some hot pink streaks through the few pieces of hair that fell on the sides of my face, and she had flat-ironed it so it was perfectly straight.

It looked pretty sweet, actually. But don't tell them I said that. I would never hear the end of it.

By that time, it was around three-ish, so we drug our butts over to the electronics place and scouted out iPods. I let Angel pick out the color, and she chose red for me. Ella insisted I get an iHome, whatever that is, so I did. She who holds the credit card makes the decisions, I guess.

Dr. M texted (I know, who knew her generation could do that?) Ella to pick up my phone from the Rogers place, and we managed to do that _and_ book it back to the front doors by four to meet Dr. M. She laughed at the amount of bags we had and packed them all into the back of the SUV without complaining.

She _laughed._ We spent enough money of hers today to feed a large village in Africa for a good four months, and she laughs. Does this woman have a millionaire uncle she's waiting to whack to pay for the fancy house, and fancy car, and half of the freaking mall?

Angel fell asleep on the way home, and Ella was busy texting some boy (which we teased her mercilessly about) so Nudge volunteered to help me figure out how to work my cell. She put in all these numbers for people I didn't know, and tried to teach me how to T9. For a teenage girl, I was surprisingly horrible at it. I thought we girls between the ages of 14 and 25 were supposed to be pro at these things? It probably didn't help that I was more focused on the fact that the little black rectangle slid up and down, and it was the most high-tech thing I'd ever owned in my life. I spent a good part of the ride home just flicking it up, then down, then up, then down, then up . . .

Some days I swear I'm ADD.

When we pulled into the driveway, I was still bad, but slightly less technologically illiterate than I had been. None of us really wanted to lug all those bags up the stairs, so we wheedled Iggy and Gazzy into helping us, under the circumstances of free foot massages. As if we would actually _do_ it.

Suckers.

Fang was still nowhere to be seen. I was beginning to think he was avoiding me.

Not that I cared, but still.

That's rude.

Then I had to laugh, because I had absolutely no right to call other people rude.

Nudge insisted that she put music on my iPod right away, so we holed ourselves up in Dr. M's office on the communal computer, listening to every single song in their iTunes library and moving the ones I liked into "Max's Master Playlist". We paused once to put our input into the take-out order for dinner tonight, and again to accept our Ramen noodles and chicken balls. Well, I did. Nudge had a salad, the little health-freak. Then we retreated back into the office, like a pair of hermits.

Ella and Nudge helped put my new wardrobe into my closet, and that was hard. Half a mall's worth of clothes + little closet = big problem. I watched them struggle to fit every shirt and every pair of jeans in, lying across my bed and flipping through an old Reader's Digest (Boooring.), laughing at the looks on their faces when it just fell right back out as soon as they turned their backs. It took them a while, but they managed to do it. Both girls crashed early, along with Angel, exhausted from our excursion at the mall today.

Lucky little me got to sleep in the next morning while everyone else went to school. Or work, if you were Dr. M. When I finally did get up at ten, I threw on a cami and some baggy sweats and shuffled downstairs. And for those of you going ``She`s wearing _that_?! ˝, it was _comfy._ So there.

Iggy had been kind and left me a sandwich in the fridge for lunch, thank god. He had also put sticky notes on every cupboard door and drawer with thing like "Spoons, forks, knives. Don't hurt yourself" and "KD, if you can work a pot and a stove" written on them.

I opened the cupboard labelled "Glasses. Be careful, they hate blondes" and poured a glass of juice. Leaning back on the counter, I thought about what I knew for sure:

Dr. M was loaded, and I could definitely get used to living in luxury.

Angel was most definitely alive and very happy here, apparently with a brother. Which reminds me, I need to hear that story, preferably soon.

Indoor plumbing is the greatest invention _ever_.

My original plan of "Go in, get some clean clothes, good food, and a shower and then mysteriously disappear" was down the tubes, thanks to Iggy and his cooking. There was no way I could go back to dumpster diving now.

My safety box was stolen, but by who, I didn't know. And I knew it was stolen because I distinctly remembered leaving it next to my mattress as I left before work, because I had been looking through it for the millionth time. And if Cindy Vaer and Kelly Fu missed it, then they are dumber than I thought.

Generally, I keep it in the floorboards in the crackhouse, but I hadn't had time that day because I was late. So I just left it on top of my bed, trusting that the tradition of no one else going into the rotten-looking building would be upheld. But it wasn't. I knew that whoever had stolen my box had to have known what he or she was doing. I was their target, no doubts about it. They knew where I was going, and how long I would be gone, and where to find the goods. Normal people don't just randomly wander into abandoned buildings and check under the floorboards, if they were sane. I decided that the best way to figure this out would be to go home, inspect the room. Look for any clues pointing to whoever might have been involved. That's what I was doing this afternoon.

Trekking across the city, alone, to pry up old, rotten, smelly boards in a run-down squatter's haven that was abandoned because it was too filthy for the druggie hobo living in it.

That was more my style than shopping though.

I finished my juice and unfolded today's newspaper, scanning the crime section. One of Jeb's lessons: Be aware of what is going on around you, and always know the latest tidbits. Generally, I gave an extra fiver to the kid at the magazine stand on 27th when I buy my daily paper and he tells me the latest and greatest scandals on the streets. Most of the time it's fights over women, power, and territory. Useless to me, but it doesn't hurt to know these things.

My closet was a mess, and I couldn't find anything, so I just grabbed my jacket off the desk chair and hoped it wasn't too cold out. I wasn't about to risk going into that warzone. It was likely I'd be sniped down by a denim skirt or something. I slipped my phone into my backpack, Dr. M's orders, and my iPod. I had become emotionally attached to that little hunk of painted metal overnight. Almost as an afterthought, I grabbed my jackknife out of a drawer. It wasn't as good as my switch, but it'd have to do.

Didn't want to be caught unawares.

Iggy's sandwich tasted just as good when eaten like a hyena as it would have if it were eaten like a normal person. Then I was out the door, heading down the street. The wind was playing with my hair, blowing it across my face so part of my vision was a golden, blond-ish blur. Eventually I got sick of it so I pulled it back into a pony. I had forgotten to put socks on, mostly because I couldn't remember where Ella and Nudge had moved them when they revamped my closet, so my feet were starting to get a little sore. Luckily for me, my bus pass was still in my jacket pocket. I curled up in a seat, next to a ninety-something balding man who kept shooting me creepy little smiles with only three or four teeth in them. Every once in a while, his hand would inch closer to my leg. Before his deprived little wrinkled hands could touch me, I sprang up and pulled the bell to get off. It wasn't my stop, but I couldn't care less. I would rather have blisters on my feet than get groped by someone old enough to be my grandpa.

I have standards, you know.

I managed to slip through the crowd without too many mishaps. One guy bumped into me and spilt coffee all down his shirt. I slipped away before he could get enough air to yell at me, even though it was _clearly _his fault. Jerk. People were giving me funny looks, sort of a cross between recognition, pity, and disdain. Probably because of my shabby sneakers, second-hand coat, and lack of personal hygiene. I don't think I even brushed my hair this morning.

Oh well. I survived nine years without trivial stuff like that, I'll last another day.

As soon as I was far enough down from the bus stop I had just got off of, I hopped on another bus, a different one. No one bothered me and I claimed a whole seat as my own. At my stop, I got off, obviously, and meandered down the sidewalk, looking for the right alleyway. I found it easily. Checking over my shoulder to make sure no one was paying any attention to the suspicious-looking blond girl, I ducked into the shadows, jogging down to the end where I had pushed a dumpster up against the wall. I used it as a ladder to reach the window. The entire building had been shut down for years, deemed unliveable by the Health Board, and most windows were boarded up, the front and back doors locked.

I clambered up onto the grungy metal dumpster, reaching up to jiggle the window with my fingernail. It slid up, giving my fingertips purchase. I pushed it all the way up, wedging the stick in it to hold it up, like always. Using my arms, I hoisted myself up until my stomach was resting on the ledge with my feet hanging out the window. Hopefully no one would walk by right now. I chucked my bag through and slid the rest of my body in, landing in an uncoordinated heap on the dusty floor.

"Owww," I moaned, rolling over onto my back. I stared at the ceiling, wishing it would sprinkle magic pixie dust and make me not hurt.

_Dream on, Max_.

Springing lithely to my feet, and rubbing my backside, I looked around the room. Nothing seemed out of place, save for the absence of my stuff. The cracked mirror still hung on the wall crookedly, the low mattress was still in the corner, and a half-burned candle was still melted onto the crate next to my "bed". I was just starting towards the hiding spot my safety box goes in when I heard it. Footsteps.

Heavy footsteps, heading this way.

I dove for the closet, pulling the creaky doors shut enough to hide me, but so I could still see the room. And yes, I realize how cliché that is. Gruff voices joined the footsteps, now outside the door. IT slammed open, and the muffled voices became clearer.

"You swear she's not here?"

"Did you see the place? It's covered in dust. If she had been anywhere in the rest of the house, we would see her footsteps. She's not here."

"But the boss said that she would be—"

"_She's not here. _Now hurry up. This place is creepy. Just do it."

"Shouldn't we scout out the room first, in case she's up here? I don't really want her screaming out of the closet and going ballistic on our asses."

Well, at least one of them had a little sense. I wasn't glad he did, because he was right. I was in the closet. And I would go all ballistic on their asses. I silently prayed, to God or Buddha or whoever is up there, that they wouldn't check the place out and just get on with their mission. They must have heard me.

"She's not going to. Boss said she was gone. Shipped off to some orphanage, or something."

"Good, because she scares me. She could probably whoop me in a fight."

The two men bent over in a corner, the muscles in one's forearms bulging in strain as he tugged on something. A sickening crack sounded, and he set a board next to him. The other one shuffled around a bit, taking care to place something carefully down in front of them, then the first guy picked the board up and stood, stomping it back into place.

"Done?"

"Yeah, let's go." They turned to leave, and I accidentally bumped my elbow into the back wall of the tiny closet. All three of us froze; them in fear and suspicion, me in frustration at myself.

"Did you hear that?"

"It came from the closet. Go check it out."

"No, you do it."

"No. You do it."

"No, you."

"You." Oh god, it was like a replay of yesterday morning. Finally they argued themselves all the way to paranoia, getting so scared of what could be in the closet that they booked 'er down the stairs and out the door, slamming it behind them. I slipped out of my hiding place, kneeling down in the corner they had just been in.

The old oak panel was slightly bent, curved up a tiny bit. There wasn't enough of a crack for me to squeeze my finger in, so I slid my jackknife out and wedged the tip in. It pried up fairly easy. Inside what used to be my safe, without the locks and metal, was an ivory envelope with one word written on the front.

"_Max."_

The writing was unfamiliar to me, but it looked childish. Like a third-grader did it. I hadn't gotten into any spats with any elementary kids for a while, so I was stumped. Cautiously, I picked it up, cradling it in my fingers as I shifted over to lean my back against the wall. Using a fingernail, I tore open the mystery envelope.

The white sheet of paper inside was penned by the same messy third-grader. The massage was short and sweet, straight to the point.

"_Meet me at the 12__th__ and 67__th__ corner warehouse on October 19. Forty-five minutes after midnight. Don't be late and don't involve the authorities._

_Be a good girl, like Jeb taught you. Or we might burn your memories."_

It wasn't signed. Just ended, with a picture of mine taped to the bottom of the sheet, of Jeb and I, with our faces torched out with a lighter.

I felt my stomach twist, churning uncomfortably and making my throat close. It took me a few minutes to refocus and stand, stiffly. I popped the board back into place and slid the letter into my bag's front pocket. The clouds were grey and dismal, overcast, as I walked the entire way home.

_Reflecting my mood,_ I thought bitterly, kicking a chunk of gravel with my toe.

The cold seeped into my bones, bitter wind cutting across my cheeks. The sun was just going down when I reached Dr. M's front steps. There were lights on in the windows, shining yellow over the dark lawn. I closed the door quietly behind me, slipped off my wet shoes (it had rained again last night, apparently), and slunk upstairs without anyone noticing me.

When I came back downstairs and into the kitchen, there was an unfamiliar blond woman standing at the stove. She was flipping something in a frying pan, her perky ponytail bobbing up and down because she was whistling something, and really getting into it.

Cautiously, I skirted over to where Iggy and Nudge were sitting at the table, peeling potatoes into a bowl.

"Hey Max," Iggy greeted, his sightless blue eyes turning to stare at me. I jumped. He grinned at me, and beside him Nudge stifled a giggle. I took a seat next to her and grabbed a knife just as Perky Blond turned around, wiping her hands on a hand towel. She looked like a TV mom, but there was something off about her. Something unsettling that made me wary of her happy demeanour.

"Oh, hello," she chirped, smiling brightly at me. I offered a half-hearted smile back. She was scary-sunny. Not my type of person. I foresee a _lot _of avoiding this one in my future.

Great. Hiding in my own home. Now that I actually have one.

* * *

**Yeah, sorry Fax lovers. I'm with you. I _love_ Fax. And I really _really _wanted to put some in, like them meeting!!, but I couldn't fit it in. The chapter got too long. But it will be there next chapter, I swear.**

**Yeah, you know the drill.**

**REVEIW.**

**Thanks ya'll. (And I'm not Southern. I'm Northern, very much so. I just like saying ya'll.)**

* * *


	4. Chapter 4: PB

**Hey.**

**Okay, I felt so, so, so bad about dropping off the face of the earth. Forgive me? ****It's just that last week was finals, (I'm on summer vacay! Wooo!!) and I've spent all my free time for the last two weeks studying, and before that I couldn't figure out what to write, so that means this chapter, I think, blows chunks. I personally hate it. Let me know if you agree or disagree.**

**REVIEWS:**

**Draco: OMG SORRY. I feel terrible about leaving for a month. . . :'(**

**Kinberlyanna 13: That would be cool, all the different POV's, but I'm 99.9% sure I would totally butcher them so bad you would all refuse to read my stuff anymore. I'm sorry. Wow, I seem to be saying that a lot today. . .**

**kollen: I love you! Seriously, I do. I read you're review, and I was like, that girl is so just like me. Totally up front about everything, the good, the bad, the ugly, so YOU ROCK!! Tips are so cool, so keep 'em coming, if you can. :D**

**xSarahxMariexCullen: One question: How long did it take you to type THAT? Nice to know you like it so much though.**

**HerGoldenWings: You'll see who the blond is now. . . and Brigid IS blond, isn't she? So what's this whole crapola about her having red hair in MAX? I'm so confused.**

**Okay, I read the new book, MAX, finally yesterday. Yeah, I read it all in one day, get over it. And I really gotta say, the gills thing is kinda weird, and I could've sworn that Brigid had BLOND hair. Not red. Blond. Jeez JP, get it right. You made her for god's sakes. Rant over. **

**Okay, I'll get on with the show. Right after the disclaimer:**

**MAX: Okay, Inky?**

**ME: Yeah?**

**MAX: I do not see your name written anywhere on this bird-girl body, so. . .**

**ME: Okay, okay, I don't own you.**

**MAX: And. . .**

**ME: *Dramatic sigh* I don't own the-- the fl--the flo--the-- Please don't make me say it!!**

**MAX: Say it. Now. Before I beat you with your intestines.**

**ME: No need to get your panties in a knot. Fine, I don't own the. . . the flock. There, I said it. Happy?**

**MAX: Extremely.**

**There ya go, JP. **

**Kisses,**

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

**Kryptonite**

**Chapter Four: PB...**

Iggy chuckled quietly. "Welcome to hell," he muttered.

"Uh, hi," I said awkwardly, focusing on peeling a lumpy potato and _not _catching my fingertips. So far, I was failing horribly. Perky Blonde's bright smile faltered a tiny bit at my unenthusiastic response, then picked up double time as she moved over to the island and started to attack a poor peeled potato with a butcher knife big enough to kill a person. Not that I would know. . .

"It's so nice that we have you here with us, Max. Dr. Martinez is a wonderful woman, isn't she?" she continued. The potato was now a mountain of hacked up pieces on the counter, and I saw Iggy eyeing it with disgust, like he could do better. He probably could, now that I think about it.

I wanted to tell her that it sure the hell _wasn't _nice that I had ended up in a foster home because a large gang of thugs almost beat me to death in a dark, stanky alley, because I was a nice person and saved some moron's ass with my totally sweet kung-fu-ish moves, which I was pretty much forced to learn if I wanted to survive growing up on the streets alone.

Yeah, not nice at all.

I didn't say any of that because, well, I wasn't sure if her sunny, happy-go-lucky persona could handle it. It was bad enough that I had to deal with my life sucking; there was no need for anyone else to join me, even if they are extremely annoying. I settled with a simple silence, not saying anything at all.

PB, as I'd demoted her, looked up when I didn't respond. Under her gaze, I nodded my head dutifully, not sure what I was agreeing to. I really hoped she didn't just ask me to help her bury the bodies stashed in her garage for her. As tough and hard-core as I am, I don't do dead _anything_ well. Satisfied, she went on.

"She was kind enough to take six extra kids under her wing. How she manages is a mystery. I try and help out whenever I can, laundry and cooking and such." Behind PB's back, Nudge made a face and shook her head vigorously. "Not a chance" she mouthed to me, and my mouth quirked up at the corners. I chose not to point out that PB was mutilating the potatoes and that a blindfolded llama could do better. "I'm Anne," she tacked on, as if she'd forgotten that I just might not know her. I offered her a "good for you" nod in return.

Anne scooped up her mangled pieces of potato and dumped them into a waiting sheaf of tinfoil. Muttering something about garlic, she shuffled into the pantry, letting the door shut behind her. Iggy jumped lightly out of his seat and popped his chair under the doorknob, locking her in. I gaped at him. I thought kids were supposed to respect their elders and all that crap?

Nudge snorted, making me laugh at her unladylike-ness. From what I knew of her, she never really seemed the uncouth type. Iggy just grinned and started neatly chopping potatoes, fixing Anne's mutated chunks. He worked swiftly, his pale fingers flashing over the knife and feeling out his next cut. I supposed it should probably bother me that a blind guy was totally schooling me at something so blatantly simple that a drunken monkey could do it, but it didn't, shockingly. Peeling potatoes wasn't exactly high on my list of important skills.

"Thank god," Iggy smirked. "She made it easy this time."

"Remember when you had to hide the butter and it took you almost an hour to convince her that there was no more left and she went down to the store all mad because you kind of insulted her shoes? She kept giving you really spiteful looks for like a week. It was hilarious!" Nudge laughed.

"You do this often?" I asked, waving my paring knife over to the closed door.

"Every day. The woman can't cook worth a damn. It's up to me to make sure the food is edible so we don't all starve." Iggy shrugged.

The doorknob rattled then, making all three of us jump. Nudge and I focused our attention back on our hands, trying to look innocent. Iggy hurriedly swept his cubes into the tinfoil sheet and dumped some salt on them, grabbed the chair, and booked 'er back to the table. We were all sitting calmly, peeling potatoes, looking totally not guilty of _anything_ when Anne finally pushed open the pantry door and stumbled out with a bottle of parsley and a clove of garlic.

"Silly door was stuck," she frowned, tugging on her blue "Kiss the Cook" apron. She pulled out a garlic press, impressing me a) that I knew what it was, and b) that she knew how to work it. I glanced over at Iggy, who grinned at me cheekily and shot me a thumbs up. Rolling my eyes, I looked back down at the starchy, white-ish lump in my hands. Anne attempted to cheerfully spring up a conversation with me, but I wasn't exactly in the mood. She gave up after all she got was short, clipped answers that clearly said "Back off or this could get ugly".

When everything was peeled and started cooking, Nudge and I watched as Iggy pretended to be interested in what Anne was doing, while stealthily slipping ingredients into her concoctions when she wasn't looking. Lemon pepper into the salmon frying on the stove, salt and pepper into the potatoes before they were slid into the oven to bake. Anne never noticed, as shocking as that sounds. She just carried on, whistling and oblivious.

Finally, Dr. M got home from work and Anne handed the spatula and apron over to her. Thankfully, Dr. M passed on the apron and forked over the spatula to Iggy.

"Is she over every day?" I asked Nudge, leaning a little closer so Anne and Dr. M wouldn't overhear.

"Yup. Every day but Sunday. She's super religious." Nudge kept it short, thank god.

"I swear she has some sort of Jesus shrine in her house," Iggy added, leaning over the back of my chair and making me jump. The front door slammed shut behind Anne, and the three of us sighed in collective relief.

Dr. M called the others to dinner then, so Iggy moved around the table to take his chair. Nudge quickly claimed the seat next to Iggy. Angel bounced into the room, smiling sweetly, and took the seat on my left. I smiled down at her. Gazzy slipped in, sitting next to Angel and hastily rubbing his black-ish hands on his jeans. I wondered what he had been doing— no scratch that; I wondered what he had exploded. He caught my eye and wiggled his eyebrows up and down mischievously. Ella swept into the room, frowning when she saw most of the seats occupied. She ungraciously took the chair next to Nudge, across from Angel, and shot a really dirty look at Nudge. Nudge smirked, her eyes flicking to Iggy sitting next to her, then back to Ella, clearly gloating. Ella's frown deepened. Something told me that there was a not-so-nice rivalry going on there, over the blind guy, who was totally oblivious to it. And that shocked me because, for a blind guy, Iggy seemed extremely perceptive. And dexterous. And trouble-ish, but let's not go into too much detail here.

The seat across from me was empty, and I wondered if Fang was really an illusion that they all believed, or a symptom of too much Febreeze Air Effects to the head. Maybe I had been dumped in a nuthouse, where they all see the same imaginary friend. Maybe he was really the friendly ghost that died in the attic in 1801 and drives you nuts because he steals your undies when you're not looking. Maybe—

The swinging door to the hall opened, and I really hoped it was Anne, coming back because she forgot her Martha Stewart Cookbook or something, because I was still operating on the Fang-is-a-ghost theory and I really had no desire to meet Casper anytime soon.

But the guy who walked— well, sauntered, really— through the door frame was very substantial and un-dead-like. His overlong dark hair hung over his eyes a little, so I couldn't really see his face properly. He took the seat across from me, the only one left, and didn't look up. I used my super-sleuthing skills to deduce that this was the infamous Fang.

"Alright," Dr. M clapped her hands together. The entire table turned to look at her. "Dig in, guys!" Those seemed to be the magic words. The others attacked the various bowls in the centre of the large table. Gazzy immediately reached for the corn, and I'm pretty sure Nudge groaned. He grinned, and purposely spooned another heaping spoon onto her plate before passing it on to Angel. She pushed it towards me, and I dished her some before looking after myself.

It took three threats of beatings (which didn't work) and a promise of extra apple pie (which did work) to get Gazzy to take some salmon. Iggy pretended like he needed help dishing himself up, and suckered Nudge and Ella into doing it for him. I had a feeling that he was really milking the blind thing, and that he could probably work a spoon all by himself. He probably liked the attention. I mean, Nudge and Ella weren't exactly the ugly stepsisters off of _Cinderella_. And yes, I have seen that movie. Angel made me watch it, thank you.

Boys. At this age, they're only after one thing.

The easy way out of work. What were you thinking?

All in all, I was mildly surprised. My limited knowledge of families and how they worked did not prepare me for the picture before me. I thought that we had to say grace before eating, and all that crap. There was no grace-saying here, let me tell you. I shook my head and dug into my plate, finding it really good, thanks to Iggy.

"Fang, pass me the potatoes, would you?" Dr. M asked, clearing a small space on the cluttered table for him to set the bowl. The dark-haired boy glanced up and reached over to grab the bowl, and I swear my heart stopped.

It was him. Like, _him, _him. The kid from the alley, Shadow Boy, the very reason I was here in the first place.

At that moment, I was torn between reaching across the table and throttling the kid, or waiting until he was all relaxed that night and _then _throttling him in his sleep. The second would be less messy, I decided.

I mean, that sounds a little harsh, yes, but he _ruined my life_! Trust me, you would be mad too. Well, maybe not ruined, exactly. I _am _cleaner than I've been in a while, and the food is heavenly. But now, I'm not free. Not like I used to be, not like I want to be again. This place, with Dr. M, represents everything I've worked my entire life to avoid: rules, expectations, being un-Max to please people around me.

I don't do un-Max at all. Like, really. _At all._

Anyway, Fang passed the potatoes and life went on as usual, despite my inner epiphany. I, being the Queen of Deceit, pretended like everything was okay, I didn't know him from anywhere, let alone and _alleyway _for God's sake, and continued eating normally. Gazzy finished his heap of food, and proceeded to burp the ABC's while ignoring Nudge, Ella, and Dr. M glaring at him, and Angel kept shooting me these weird glances, with _What is up with _you_? _written all over them. I just smiled back at her, finished eating and, disengaging myself from Dr. M's invite to watch TV in the den once dishes were done, retreated to the peace of my room.

My room. It felt so wrong saying that after all these years. I hadn't had my own room in a long time. Sure, the old crackhouse had been nice, if you're a rat. I flopped down onto my bed (Again, so weird!) and stared up at the cobalt ceiling, my hands behind my head. I don't know how long I laid there for, just relaxing and taking deep, calming breaths, something I had never actually done before. A knock at the door made me blink, losing the staring contest I had going with the ceiling, one that I was definitely going to lose.

"It's open," I called, eyes never leaving the roof. Whoever was on the other side of that door had hands; they could twist the doorknob themselves. I waited, but heard nothing. Maybe they had changed their mind? I wasn't sure, but that insanely stubborn part of my brain refused to allow me to glance over at the door and check. So I resumed focusing on the ceiling.

"It's not going to blink. It's a roof." The voice made me jump, mostly because it was unfamiliar and right next to me. A quick glance to the left told me all I needed to know.

Maybe I wouldn't have to wait until everyone was asleep tonight to get my hands dirty.

He stared blankly down at me, onyx hair falling into his dark eyes, and said nothing. Our eyes locked for a long minute, battling for dominance over who will dictate the terms of the conversation we both knew was going to happen any second, and I found perverse pleasure in the fact that I won. Almost reluctantly, I scooted over on the mattress a bit to make room for him, and he sat. My eyes drifted back upwards, away from his.

"I am not at all pleased with you, Shadow Boy."

I felt, more than heard, him chuckle, shaking the bed a tiny bit. I could tell my face had gone into it trademark bored expression, unyielding to the range of emotions boiling inside of my heart at the moment.

"I mean, really. Go steal some common sense. Who in their right mind gallivants around the pitch black alleys of the city, in the rough district, in the middle of the night? God."

"Gallivants?" He sounded like he was choking back laughter.

"Shut up, and don't change the subject. I'm not done yet. I saved your ass—you're welcome, by the way—and got my ass whooped for it after. Bet you didn't see that, huh? Landed me a first class room in the hospital before they shipped me here. You _owe _me. So, stay off my nerves, and I won't gut you like a fish, okay?" By this time, I had levered myself into an upright position, and was glaring at him. He didn't even flinch, like a sane person would have. That in itself frustrated me terribly.

I waited until he nodded, smirking that annoying little _I-told-you-so _smirk that made me want to kill him, even though I just laid down a serious peace treaty to save his neck, and then spread out on my back again.

"Now, go away," I dismissed, closing my eyes for some of the sleep I figured I could use.

"Yes ma'am," said Fang, kind of mockingly.

"Oh, wait. Just thought I'd say it," I paused, enjoying the confused look on his face. "You got _saved_ by a _girl_."

He scowled at me, while I laughed at him. Really, that was priceless.

"Angel conned you into watching _Cinderella_," he countered, which sobered me up. Now I was the one scowling.

"Have you _seen_ that girl's Bambi eyes? They're deadly."

"Riiight." He was gone before I could whap him one, which frustrated me more.

* * *

**Okay. There. I finally posted. Happy now y'all?**

**If you're happy, reveiw.**

**It's a simple concept.**

**If you don't, Orville will steal all your cookies and hide them in my basement.**

**Mmm, cookies.**

**And for those of you confused about Orville, don't say it to his face. It'll hurt his feelings. Go to the author's note on my oneshot, _Anywhere_, to get it. And if you still don't get it then, don't ask. It was me being me. Again.**

**I'm a hazard to this planet's safety, I know.**

**

* * *

**


	5. Chapter 5: Squirrel With A Pencil

**Don't hate me, please! I still love you, my faithful readers!! You guys rock, seriously. What would I do without you? **

**Oh, yeah, nothing, cause I would have no reason to continue with my stories. :( If eel bad about being so slow at this. Really, I do, but I have legitiment reasons!**

**Here I go: a) my aunt passed away (Yes, the one that was married to my aformentined uncle who passed away a little while ago) so I was upset about that, b) my grandpa broke his hip and went into a surgery we weren't sure he's make through alive because of his heart, but no worries; he's okay, and c) I was trying to figure out how to face paint.**

**Yes, you heard me right. Face paint. It's a long story. I'll not get inot that.**

**Oh, hey, REVIEWS:**

**CloudbzandPiratey-things: Thanks. I love sprinkles!!!**

**Wantsbookwu-fang-for-herself: Hey, yeah he's alive and kickin', and I didn't abandon this story. I'm just slow. Sorry!**

**bookwurm96: I feel you!! I hate it when my dad eats all my cookies!!**

**terasXsolitude: Hey, thanks! I'm in love with it too, actually. It's my baby. . . and yeah, Fang can defend himself, but for the sake of the story, let's say they were really big, and he was cornered, and the surprised him.**

**Draco: FINALLY!! Someone agrees with me! Thanks, and I think you and I should tell JP where he can put his red-haired Brigid. And to get a new editor. Or maybe not. I'm not that pro at confrontation.**

**HerGOldenWings: Oh, yeah. Major drama. That is, if I'm any good at it.**

**)( *wings* )(: Thanks. Glad to hear I'm doing so well in the suspense category.**

**santaclausrules18: Ha ha nice to know there's someone out there with the same amount of sanity as me! LOL, nice. :)**

**Okay, you've all been waiting patiently for this, and I'd better get on with it, right?**

**Disclaimer: I'll keep it short and simple. Me. No. James. Patterson. Comprende?**

**Kisses, **

**{--Inky--}**

**P.S. bellacullen321, I know I promised this by the end of July, but some crap came up. But August first isn't that far off, right? Forgive me?**

**Kryptonite**

**Chapter Five: Squirrel with a Pencil**

**Max POV**

By Wednesday, I was settled into my cushy new life at Dr. M's quite nicely. I'd managed to evade Nudge and Ella's attempts to make me over like a personal Barbie with minimal damage, whoop Gazzy's ass at Guitar Hero several times over, and discover that Angel's dog Total heavily dislikes doggy kibble and barfs it right back up in the closest pair of shoes her can find after eating it. I really don't like talking about the last one. Too traumatizing, although Iggy thought it was hilarious, of course. It wasn't _his _shoes the scruffy mutt ran to after the first belly rumble.

Fang avoided me, which sat extremely well with me. After our little "talk" Monday night, interaction came to a standstill. He didn't talk to me, I didn't talk to him, and things ran smoothly for once.

I should have known that peace was made to be shattered.

Anne was doing her housewife thing in the kitchen, finally admitting that chatting with me is about as useful as chatting with a brick, and I was spread out comfortably on the leather couch, watching _Fear Factor _re-runs in peace. I wondered how much money my lack of fear or thought-processes could win me on that show. Life actually seemed good— as good as it gets, at least— until the commercials came on. More specifically, a waitress wanted ad for a nearby restaurant chain.

Chloe's. I worked tonight. Dr. M was on call all night, so she was just bunking in the clinic until morning and leaving Anne in charge because, apparently, three sixteen-year-olds isn't enough to handle four youngsters and a dog.

Okay, one's blind, one's practically mute, and another's a certified street kid who could successfully kill a man with her bare hands, but let's not dwell on the petty details.

I wasn't actually sure how easily Anne would agree to letting me out onto the streets at eleven o' clock at night to go waitress at a bar. She really struck me as one of those uptight, never-let-her-kids-do-anything-remotely-risky types. There were too many probabilities involved in the equation, so I chose to keep it simple.

Ever so casually, I entered the kitchen and leaned against the counter next to where Anne was frying a cut-up chicken breast. It actually smelled pretty good, for once. I was utterly shocked.

"Hey Ms. Walker," I said, going with respectful and formal, even if it made me sound like a total loser.

"Please, dear, call me Anne. Keeps me young," she smiled and winked playfully. Internally, I gagged, and then thought, viscously, _Good luck with that war._

"Okay. Can I ask you a question?"

Anne smiled even brighter, id that's even possible. "Of course Max!" I snagged an egg from the open carton sitting on the counter, twirling it between my fingers idly.

"Would I be allowed out around eleven tonight?"

Anne's eager puppy-dog look faded. "Whatever for?" she asked, rinsing her hands in the sink and drying them on a tea towel.

"I kind of have to work tonight, so—"

"Max," Anne interrupted, placing a hand on my arm. I stared down at her pale, practically white skin stretched over her knuckles, suddenly wishing I have the power to spontaneously set things on fire with my eyes."Putting yourself out for men just to get paid isn't a life fit for anyone. We can help you, get you out. Don't worry about a thing." She patted my arm reassuringly. Incredulous, I moved my stare up to her sympathetic-looking face, still wishing for that spontaneous-fire-power-thing.

"So because I grew up on the streets and I'm a girl, you automatically assume that I'm a crack-whore?" I asked, really not believing what she was saying to me. Somewhere in the distant realistic world, the front door slammed, signalling the other's return from school. I payed no attention.

"Well, I just. . . I mean . . . you're very—"

"Slutty? Really, is that how you see me?"

"No! No. . . . I don't, really I think that you're a very respectable young . . . um, lady, and. . . . I just guessed . . . ah . . .," Anne stuttered. I let her flounder around for a minute, thoroughly enjoying her stumble over herself. Just once, she was off her high horse. Then I continued, my voice rising a little.

"Next you'll be worried I'll pull out my handgun and rob the place. Oh, and let's throw in a couple homicides while we're at it!"

Anne's eyes widened and all the color drained from her face. I sighed. Apparently these people had never heard of sarcasm before, which was shocking because from what I know about Shadow Boy, he's quite fluent in it.

"I work as a waitress on 32nd Avenue. I don't own a handgun, and I've never killed anyone," I said slowly, enunciating as if I were talking to a small child. Not that Anne's much higher on the IQ ladder.

"Max is too nice." Angel startled us both and skipped through the door, pausing to wrap her spidery thin arms around my waist, look up at me all blue eyes and adorable-little-girl-ish, and smile sweetly at me. Anne watched her, pure jealousy written all across her face, directed at me. Angel didn't notice. She danced over to the fridge and pulled the door open, producing a juice box from the shelves and skipped out of the room again.

"I really don't think it would be prudent for a young lady like yourself to be out wandering the streets unaccompanied. You'll have to take the night off," Anne sniffed, regaining her "authoritativeness". Notice the quotation marks. She really has nothin' over us; we just let her think she does. I repressed a groan and left the kitchen, heading up the stairs to my room.

And because Fate really does pick on me, who do I happen to run into in the somewhat skinny hallway? I'll give you three guesses.

No, not Taylor Swift.

No, not George Clooney.

Yes, Fang the Silent.

We kind of just stood there, him looking down at me, because he's taller, with an expression like I'm a very confusing, high-priority experiment that he just can't solve, and me staring back, waiting for him to move.

He raised one dark eyebrow at my expression, which I guess must have been a little peeved about the whole Anne thing still, and it was really weird because I knew what he was asking.

_Upset, are we? _

I rolled my eyes and brushed past him.

"I'll take that as a yes," he muttered, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets and heading down the stairs I had just come up from.

On a whim, I knocked on Ella's door, partly because I was standing right next to it, partly for something to do. After a moment's silence, the door flew open to reveal a very excited Ella, grinning from ear to ear with an evil tinkle in her eye that usually means she's planning something. And that something would probably not end well for someone like, say, _me_. Ella grabbed my wrist and pulled me pas the door frame, clicking it shut forcefully behind me.

I shook her off and sank casually into one of the brightly colored beanbag chairs she had littering the corner of her room, and she flopped onto her back on the bed. She turned her head to look at me and watching me expectantly.

"What?" I finally asked. Her staring was making shivers race up and down my spine, and just all around freaking me out.

"You two totally just had a _moment_."

"A what?"

Ella sighed. "A moment. Like, in the movies when the main couple just stars into each other's eyes, not saying anything because everything they need to say is in their eyes." She exhaled dreamily, eyes glazing over as she eyed the ceiling above her head. I could only guess who she was thinking about. A certain pale, blind boy, perhaps?

"I had one of those with Fang?"

"Uh-huh."

"Not a chance," I snorted, only a little amused.

"No?" She sounded so disappointed; it almost made me take it back. Almost.

"No," I stated firmly.

"Sure," she said, in a way that sounded as though she was just saying that to appease me.

I decided that then would be a good time to change the subject. "Tell me about the kids at this school. Who's cool?"

Ella grinned and launched into an extremely long story containing tons of descriptive adjectives and names of people I didn't even begin to comprehend or remember. I just leaned back into the faux leather of her vibrant yellow beanbag chair and let her ramble on. She looked like she was enjoying herself, and really wanted me to know this stuff, so I just let her talk. Half the time I zoned her out, and I almost fell asleep once, but Ella didn't care. I was actually glad that I could make her so happy, so animated, with a simple sentence and some easy acting.

I wondered if this was what having a real sister felt like.

I don't know how long it was before Fang appeared in Ella's doorway to call us down for dinner. She was still telling me stories about her and her friends, and I was curled comfortably in her chair. Fang half-smiled at me, just a small upward twitch of the corners of his lips, as if he knew that I was humouring her and being nice. I childishly stuck my tongue out at him and stood, stretching like a cat.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

By ten that night, I had on jeans and a new black t-shirt on under my jacket, a flashlight in my pocket, and was scaling the lattice conveniently placed on the wall next to my window. My knees knocked against the siding of the house every once in a while, and I froze in place every time. It would be really awkward for someone to hear and glance out the window to see me clinging to the wall like freaking Spider Man or something.

Finally, my sneakers touched ground. I adjusted my t-shirt over my jeans, zipped up my jacket, and moved towards the dark bushes planted in between the Martinez's house, and the next one over. One sound made me pause.

"Your landing could have been a little more graceful."

I knew that voice, and that dry tone. Slowly, I turned back to face the shadows stretching away from the side of the house. Not to mention the moving one.

"And I suppose you could have done it _tons _better?" I sniped, possibly a little too harshly, but I was late. For my job. And I needed to _go_, preferably undetected would be nice.

Fang smirked and appeared, literally _melted _out of the black mass of gloom covering most of the dewy grass. It was almost like in the movies where the bad guy comes out of nowhere with their cheesy line about how things could go wrong for the antagonists. "Well, no one caught me sneaking out, did they?"

"That's because they were all asleep."

"So what's your point?" he asked. At that point, I just turned and walked away. Now was not the time to deal with this. Plus, I might have slapped him if I stayed any longer.

But when I spun around to disappear into the bushes, he followed. I raised an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged. I frowned, my eyebrows creasing together, looking not pleased what-so-ever. Suddenly, he smiled.

"I _could_ go back and rat you out. . ."

"Fine. Let's go, then. Blackmailer," I muttered, and he smiled, actually smiled a genuine smile at me. No teeth or anything, but looking back now, it was some serious progress. "Try to keep up!" I said quietly, and then took off down the back alley.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Shockingly, he matched my pace the whole way there. We didn't speak, but it wasn't an awkward silence; more of a contented one, and that creeped me out a little. I mean, I just met this kid a couple days ago, and I'd never actually had a true conversation with him! He followed me right into Chloe's, never missing a beat, and when I turned around to address him, I realized he was gone. Somehow, he'd silently melted into the crowds, like a ghost, and I hadn't noticed. Before I could ponder this charming (not) new development, Vanessa had a hold of my arm and was pulling me behind the tall, oak bar.

She shook her head at my outfit, dark curls bouncing around her pale cheeks. O rolled my eyes at her and started my shift without a word. As I worked the tables, navigating with drinks piled high on trays, I kept a constant vigil on the hordes of people milling about, hoping to catch a glance of a certain dark-haired boy. As strange as it sounds, he'd grown on me. Of course, Fang was still as irritating and frustrating as he had been from the beginning, I kind of had some insight as to _why _he was that way.

If you had crappy parents, or no parents at all, and been dropped into a group home where everyone else razzed you about your black wardrobe, shaggy, apparently emo hair, and vow of silence vaguely seeming like the one those monks take, wouldn't you be a little cynical too? Pessimistic, maybe? Like nothing in the world can possibly come and fix things, so you may as well get as many shots in at people so you can laugh before it's all over?

I totally got it. Kind of. I was like that too. The whole "Life sucks _ass _for people like me, so I guess I'll make up for my lack of guidance and love and manners and parents by seeing how many people I can piss off in one day" thing.

I shook my head, scattering my thoughts. _Today was a _deep_ day_, I thought, smiling politely at a balding man in his forties, who s grinned a gap-toothed grin back at me. I repressed a shudder. Moving on to the next table, I scribbled down a couple orders and I had started back to the bar to drop them off when I felt— don't ask me how I know this because, really, I have no freaking clue— Fang's presence making the back of my neck prickle. He looked over my shoulder at my notepad.

"You're writing looks like it's done by a squirrel with a pencil," he commented.

"What do you expect from a girl who learned how to write by copying ads out from old fishing magazines?"

"At least to look like maybe a _mole_ with a pencil. . ."

"Shut up, Casper." He was walking beside me now, pushing through the crowds as thought it was water, not flesh and blood, and he gave me this weird look. And I realized that I'd accidentally let loose one of my more intelligence-lacking theories meant only for inside my head so no one can call me bat-crazy. Which there's a large possibility that I am, but I don't embrace it, whatever someone else might say otherwise.

"Never mind."

Fang shrugged after a moment of intense study, of my profile because I refused to look him in the eye, and claimed a stool in front of the bar. As far as I know, he stayed there until I managed to slip out for the night. We walked together down the alley, kicking the occasional pebble and not really talking. Again. I got the crazy feeling that he wasn't much of a gossip girl. Shocker, hey?

He held a particularly nasty branch back while I rolled through the hedges lining the neighbour's yard. We let ourselves into the house using the spare key. Lucky he knew where it was, 'cause I had no clue there even _was _a spare key, let alone that it was hidden in the potted plant on the steps. Just before he turned to head into his own room, I found myself saying his name, getting his attention. When he turned his dark eyes on me, I met them without hesitation. And to add to the Hallmark moment, I let some real Max into my words.

"You're really not as loathsome as I originally thought." I don't think either of us knew whether it was a compliment or not.

"Uh, thanks. Hey, can you even spell 'loathsome'?" he teased. I stuck my tongue out at him and shut my door in his face.

* * *

**There. **

**I hate this chapter.**

**And I'm sorry if it's shorter than the others. I was working on a deadline (bellacullen321, just for you!)**

**Yeah. Review and tell me if you hate it as much as I do.**

* * *


	6. Chapter 6: Le Partay and Le Partay Cake

**Wow. Been a while, hey? I feel really bad about that, btw. And this chapters kinda a filler cause I got _nothin_. writer's block sucks, ladies and gents, don't ever wish for it. Not that any sane person I know would actually _wish _for it, but that's not the point here. . .**

**Actually, the point is me finally updating!! After God knows how long! Honestly, please don't hate me!! And this time, its not cause anyone I know died lately. Really, I've been pretty funeral free, thankfully. **

**But anyway, a nice reviewer by the name of Mo- The Reviewer (THANKS, BTW!!) mentioned that Nudge and Gazzy aren't really present in Max's whole "experience" so far, and I was like, wow, I totally didn't notice that, and I always hated in the books how JP sorta left them out, so this chapter is kinda Nudge and Gazzy focused. Not much happens, really. Maybe a little Fax towards the end. A baby amount.**

**REVIEWERS: Luv you guys!**

**bookluvrxoxo: I have to admit, when you said October 19, I was completely lost as to what you meant. But I get it now :P**

**feathers789: Ha ha don't be too disappointed, I've got some twists up my sleeves they'll take these two lovebirds (oh, the irony :P) on a wild ride. Just you wait *evil grin***

**Draco: Like the name btw, do you happen to be a Malfoyfan? never liked the guy, but he was okayin Deathly Hallows I guess. . . anyway, yeah, all that stuff you mentioned was so pointless! It had nothing to do with the actual story. JP sucks at tying up loose ends, if you ask me.**

**Madeline Cullen: Oh, thank goodness, I was so hoping I did the Flock in character lol**

**Meepisms: I'm glad :) Your expectations heve been passed by me? Wow, didn't see me passing anyone's expectations. . .**

**Well, that about sums it up. I'm so, so happy to be getting reveiws on some of my other stories, so I'm letting you in on a little secret:**

**Right now, I'm working on an AU Percy Jackson and the Olympians, AND another Max Ride story, mostly about their time at the school. I'll prolly make it AU too, because I've changed some stuff, but everyone's still got wings, and was still raised in a lab with tests, and Jeb's still a tool. . . ecterea. So stay tuned!!**

**Kisses,**

**{--Inky--}**

**

* * *

Kryptonite**

**Chapter Six: Le Part-ay and Le Part-ay Cake**

**Max POV**

It's funny how time passes so slowly it feels as though it's peeling your skin away from your ligaments as it goes when you're waiting for something.

And I only just realized how morbid that sounded. Ignore that, and let me try again.

Time creeps along when you know something exciting is going to happen.

There, better, I think.

Dr. M told me that I started school on Monday, and I honestly never thought I would ever say this, but I wish it would start _sooner_. I know; the world must be post-apocalypse for _me _to want _school_! Nudge comes home every day telling all these long-winded ('cause with her, _everything_ is long-winded, trust me) stories about her day, and now I'm curious.

As a girl who's never had a formal education that wasn't Google or National Geographic or Dog the Bounty Hunter and his scary wife (no offense, but lady, crazy hair much?), I was thoroughly ready for a new experience, even if it involved textbooks and homework. The adventurous part of me was hoping it would be fun, but the rational part of me kept trying to squash those thoughts with ones of detentions I'm likely to get. No wait, that I'm _guaranteed _to get. You know, 'cause of the whole "screw the establishment" thing I've got going on.

It was Saturday, and an ecstatic Nudge bounded into my room where I was reading an old book of Dr. M's, propped a chair under my doorknob to lock it, and pulled me into the scary, cluttered vortex that used to be my closet. And just stood there.

"Uh, Nudge?" I whispered, but I'm really not sure why.

Her ear was pressed against the closed closet door, her curly hair flattened out against the wood. "Hmm?"

"Do you do this often?"

"Nope. Shh."

"Wh—"

"SHH."

I chose that moment to quit trying to ask why in Hades we were hiding in my closet from the imaginative whatever. After another minute of pure, undignified fiddling, Nudge turned to me and whispered, all conspiracy-like, "I have a plan." Seriously, she sounded like she was planning on blowing up Korea or something.

So, me being me of course, I laughed. And Nudge just gave me this weird look, so I stopped laughing and let her finish explaining her supposed plan-to-blow-up-Korea.

"Okay, so it's Gazzy's birthday today, and I have this whole thing planned for him, with cake and balloons and everything, and— Oh my God, does Gazzy like chocolate cake, even? How do I not know this? I mean, he has to right? Why wouldn't he like chocolate cake; it's, like, the best thing out there, and when I feel really bad, I just have to have a chocolate bar and—"

"Nudge!"

"Oh, yeah, right. Okay, so I've got everything worked out, and Gazzy doesn't know about it, so you absolutely _can't _tell him, okay?

"Umm, okay?" I said, but it came out more like a question than a statement. She nodded enthusiastically once, turned abruptly and dug around in my piles of clothes until she pulled out something unidentified. I couldn't make out details because it was so dark, and most of the light from the cracked-open doors was falling on Nudge's face. But it looked safe. Not a mini-skirt or a dress.

I hoped.

"Put this on— oh, don't worry, it's not _that _bad," she added, upon seeing me pull a face," and come down in ten minutes. Iggy's distracting Gazzy downstairs on the Xbox, and I've still got to get Fang up, so don't try _anything_!" she warned, and I was honestly scared for my well-being. Who knew Nudge had an ugly side? "And hurry!" Then she slipped out of my closet and disappeared.

I did as she said, pretty much to the tee, and stood off to the side in the kitchen downstairs. I was the odd one out, not quite part of their close-knit family, despite how well they accepted me. Imagine my surprise when Gazzycame bounding up the stairs, Iggy on his heels, eyes widening, and sweeping across the room before he ran up and gave me a huge hug. Like, monster-bear hug. Me. The outsider. He moved on to hug everyone else, but he chose me first.

It literally blew my mind.

I swear, there could have been smoke coming out of my ears. It was that much of a monumental moment.

Awkwardly, I patted him on the back, and he grinned a huge, eight-year-old grin up at me. Then he was gone, moving on to twirl his sister, Angel, around. She laughed heartily, and he set her down.

We all curled up in the living room, Gazzy sitting on the floor in the middle of the room with a large stack of gifts surrounding him just begging to be opened, and eventually, Dr. M brought in a ginormous chocolate cake, iced and sporting nine lit orange candles and everything, and Iggy thought he'd be funny and smash Gazzy's face into it. This started a full blown cake _war, _during which Nudge and I hid behind the couch to avoid the flying dessert. Dr. M didn't seem to give a flying whip about the icing practically coating her walls, carpet, couch, not to mention her _kids, _and watched us from the kitchen doorway, smiling and shaking her head.

At one point, Fang jumped over the back of the couch and hid with Nudge and I. There was chocolate smeared all over his face, which he proceeded to wipe off, then slap his hand on my cheek, effectively, well, pissing me off a little.

"Oh," I said, "it's _so_on now, buddy!" He just quirked an eyebrow. A fair challenge, I say.

I won't indulge you the dirty details, but let's just say it ended with seven kids scraping chocolate cake out of places they didn't even know _existed_, let alone could house cake.

And just for the record, I totally schooled Fang. He won't agree, but it's just 'cause he's saving his pride. Especially after the whole "saved by a girl thing", too.

And he _lies_.

I did not squeal. Not once. Don't believe him.

Plus, there was cake down the back of my shirt, so if I did squeal— which I _didn't, _by the way— I had a solid reason.

* * *

**So, there it is.**

**Not my best work, I admit, but there it is.**

**Orville says hi. And he wants you to review, cause he gets to read them all to me, and when I'm happy, he gets more treats. . .**

**So he says review.**


	7. Chapter 7: Smile!

**. . .**

**. . .**

**. . . I'm not dead.**

**-ducks flying projectiles-**

**Here's a short one! I'm honestly not in a writing-as-Max mind-frame right now, so I really struggled to make this remotely near what I've written before, so I feel awful about how tiny it is. :(**

**BUT, I actually like the end. I'm positive that a lot of you won't like who is AT the end, but I like it :) Not that I'm particularly fond of him lol just of how i managed to write it.**

**I'll be back relatively soon! I promise!**

**Jusr remember, good things take time ;)**

**Now, those amazing things called reviews that make me write :) (HINT HINT):**

**Blitz182: I'll let you decide who squealed and who didn't ;)**

**HerGoldenWings: Well, you asked for school, I give you school!!!!**

**Draco: Mhmm, I know what you mean, dragons, pretty much anything even remotely related to that type of thing has fascinated me since forever ago, and then the pop culture and the media caught ahold of it :P And agreed, Draco is a poser, he's got no kahunas lol I couldn't take him seriously!**

**pumpernickle93: Thank you!! :) :)**

**Froggy1xFroggy2: Of course there's gonna be Fax! Lol :) And i haven't decided about Brigid yet, I never liked her. . .Gazzy and Angel's story, along with Jeb's will come up, just not now ;) Keep reading to find out!**

**Amy-Katherine914: I'm here. And I'm updating. Just for you!! Lol :)**

**Disclaimer: Do you honestly think that if I was as rich as JP I'd be posting on fanfiction? Yeah. That's what I thought.**

**Kisses,**

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

**Kryptonite**

**Chapter Seven: Smile!**

**Max POV**

It's here.

The moment I crack my eyes open and roll over in my bed to stare at that pretty blue ceiling, I know. It's here. And honestly, I'm not sure if I'm excited, or scared pants-less. Feels like a combination of both.

The alarm clock rang, ugly and annoying, so I feel entirely justified when I slap it violently. I tumbled into a definably upright position.

For my own personal safety (and my hair's, really), I was showered and fully dressed a solid half-hour before I heard Nudge fall out of bed – and I mean _literally fall_. She's not the best morning person. She prettied herself and then we were all off, Dr. M ushering the little ones to the bus stop.

Don't ask me why I'm shocked to learn that Fang has his license. I mean, sixteen is generally the age where normal teenagers get their license, so why not?. Maybe it's because he struck me as the type of guy who would drive like a mentally deranged NASCAR racer. I don't know.

As it turns out, I'm apparently not a very good judge of character because we—namely me, Iggy, Fang, Nudge, and Ella— actually _gasp_, survived the short, ten minute trip to the school parking lot, where I was promptly ditched with a squealing Nudge.

Gee, thanks guys. Insert sarcasm _here._

She chattered all the way up the path and through the main doors, blatantly unaware that I was completely tuning her out and inspecting my surroundings. It wasn't fascinating. The same cream-colored walls everywhere, some covered by spans of black-painted metal lockers, some by posters, and some bearing doors and water fountains. There were kids everywhere, most ignoring each other and laughing with their friends over books pulled out of their lockers. We were ignored completely, which didn't bother me.

Nudge left me in my homeroom, where I was quietly mocked over my name for 7.98 seconds (let's just say that I have officially earned myself the _scary-badass-don't-mess-with-her-or-she'll-mess-you-up-chick _title already and it's not even nine yet) and handed a schedule for the remaining seven months of eleventh grade.

The up-side? I have Physical Education— or gym in the teenage language— this semester, and my locker is in a kick-ass spot, right next to a sweet window and possibly one of the _cutest_ guys I've ever seen.

Just sayin', you know. Not that I care.

Much.

I was twisting my combination into my locker, growing ferociously irritated when it didn't work, when someone nudged my hand out of the way. Bad idea. I looked up, ready to chew out whoever decided I was incompetent, and saw the afore-mentioned cute guy grinning at me. Strangely, the string of curses ranging from mild to unmentionable parading through my mind disappeared. Instantly.

"This locker sticks at little," he shrugged. "You'll get used to it." As if just waiting for him to say that, the door popped open.

I smiled. "Thanks."

"No problem." He turned back to his own open locker and me to mine. My brain contemplated attempting another conversation, but my conscience was reminding me, _loudly_ may I add, that I was already late for first period and it was a stupid idea. I slid my needed books into my bag and snapped the door shut.

"I'm Max," I said decidedly, facing him.

Ah, common sense, you got nothin'.

He laughed a little. "Dylan. Nice name, by the way, I like it. It suits you."

My turn to laugh. "I like to think so."

"Um. . ." Dylan scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Can I walk you to class?"

_Success! Ooh, I'm good._

"Why, of course," I said, and he shocked me by taking my bag off my shoulder before smiling again. "Lead the way."

_High school just got a little better. _

**You want me to post another shorty to accompany this one?**

**It's easy.**

**Just review. They make me wanna make you as happy as I get when I see that my fav story's been updated :)**


	8. Chapter 8: Mama Bear and the Squirrel

**Wow. I feel like mould. How long has it been, a month? Two? Terribly sorry about that.**

**You see, I've been sick. And then in Florida for a week. And then sick again.**

**And I still highly dislike this chapter, but I figured you people deserved SOMETHING for being so patient with me. :)**

**REVIEWS: **

**Belle: Yes. Dylan. I really do not like him, but he was so perfect for right there!! Where is life without drama, I ask you!**

**OuttaControl: Yeah, Dylan is in the sixth book, or so I read on WikiPedia. I haven't actually read FANG yet. *sob***

**feathers789: Ya know, I could ditch him, I don't like him anyway. . . but what fun is that! He needs to get beaten down at some point, right?**

**maximumridechick: Yeah, the whole flock thing is SO hard to incorporate! But I'm tryin, I swear!**

**HerGoldenWings: Yes, yes I am alive :P Barely! Just kidding :P**

**Nighthawk21: You know, that's not a bad idea. . .**

**MaxRideFreak: I'm sorry, Dylan's just there for plotline purposes :P**

**Sheild Maiden of the New World: Nice! And good to know I have you all on your toes ;)**

**Disclaimer: If I were JP, I would still be in Florida right now, when it's actually HOT. But I am not. So. I'll leave you to ponder that.**

**Kisses,**

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

**Kryptonite**

**Chapter Eight: Mama Bear and the Squirrel**

**Max POV**

Biology.

Now officially the bane of my existence.

Seriously, who cares about organelles and cytoplasts and rybonu-whatever-it-is acid? Speaking as an average teenage girl with average teenage girl interests (psh, yeah, _okay_), spending my time learning about why, when you have a kid, it'll look like it will does not, in fact, fascinate me. At all. Ever._ Never._ And judging by the girl using her pencil to pick dirt out of her nails, the girl staring out the window wistfully and sighing, and the other girl just flat out _sleeping _on her closed books_, _I feel safe to assume I'm one of the majority.

I was twirling my pencil around, distracted, when a piece of paper landed expertly on my desk. There were quite a few guys around me, all slightly suspicious-looking, and very few candidates that I might actually _want_ to have thrown it. It looked offending, sitting there on top of the notes I'd started to take but abandoned easily, daring me to just open it and quit being a coward already. God only knows what it might say.

Just to be sure, I glanced back again, and a guy to my left and down a seat smiled. He was cute, I guess, with floppy hair and cheerful, green-y eyes, and he didn't look like he hated me or anything, so I manned-up and flipped the paper open.

_You look a little out of it there :) Don't worry, Barnes only preaches some days, usually we get to do cool stuff._

He was cute, and I was bored, and there really was nothing else to pay attention to doing, so I wrote him back and flicked it onto his desk.

_Thanks, I thought I was gonna die of boredom. Does he always make people snore like this?_

_Usually. On a good day, we'll get to cut something up._

_Ah, the infamous frog-dissection, classic. Can't wait ;)_

_Not the reaction most girls give, but hey, it's better :) I'm Sam._

_Max. Do you know where the drama room is?_

_Yeah, I have it next, it's in the east wing. _

_Cool, walk me? I've already gotten lost twice today. Not fun, let me tell you._

_Well, don't I feel honoured, ha ha. New Girl wants to hang around with lowly old me, guess I'd better enjoy it, huh?_

_Damn straight! :)_

Okay, I'll admit, I was flirting just a _little bit_. Or a lot. Your call. But hey, it was fun, and isn't that what any other girl would've done? Besides, just because I could easily make the boy cry mama doesn't mean I'm not allowed a little fun! The dismissal bell rang, and since my books were already closed, I just slid them into my bag and sauntered past Sam's desk, him catching up to me as I reached the end of the rows of tables.

Talk came easily as we manoeuvred through the people in the halls, him making me laugh with an insane story about his older sister, a bandana, and their dog, and me asking about the school and him and his friends. Luckily for me, we made it to the drama room just as the bell rang and he didn't have a chance to ask about me at all.

The teacher was an eccentric young woman wrapped in a flowing, brightly patterned skirt and a sweetheart neckline t-shirt, a long brown braid threaded through with ribbons slung over her shoulder. She was standing up on the stage, smiling as the class filtered in and took seats scattered through the audience. There were quite a few people I recognized from some of my other classes.

Sam and I ended up sitting with Hannah, a girl I'd met in History, and Jen, who had defended me during roll call. I could easily picture me and her getting along beautifully if the way she could sling insults was any clue.

"Miss Johanna," Jen leaned over and whispered to me.

"She's a pretty cool teacher, for a teacher," Sam added.

Jen nodded enthusiastically, her highlighted brown bob bouncing. She had her moments where she reminded me of a more matured Nudge. "She believes in a freedom of creativity, so participation in class isn't mandatory."

I leaned back in my seat and folded my hands over my stomach. "I like her already." One of the double doors cracked open, light shining into the room, and a very late someone sauntered in, careless, as if being a half hour late to class is normal.

He adjusted his bag on his shoulder, flipped light blond hair out of his eyes and, with a wink and a grin in my direction, Dylan passed in the aisle down below where our seats sat.

I smiled and wiggled my fingers in a wave back. Did I mention he was undeniably cute?

"Would it be too much to ask for you to appear in this classroom on time for once, Mr. Soules? Or does that clash with your schedule?" Miss Johanna set a hand on her hip. He glanced up at her sheepishly (totally fake, by the way, I could tell from here) and claimed an empty spot near the front, his back mostly to us.

"Sorry Miss J, won't happen again," he said smoothly.

"Mhmm," she rolled her eyes, continuing on with her explanation.

Both Hannah and Jen were staring at me, incredulous, like I held the key to ending world hunger or something. Sam was watching Dylan, and I could tell he was jealous. I'd have to set that boy straight sometime.

Dylan = possible candidate.

Sam = not so possible candidate.

Yeah.

"What?" I asked. Cue uncomfortable skin-crawling.

Jen blinked. "He winked at you."

"And?"

"That was Dylan Soules," Hannah clarified unnecessarily.

"I'm aware, thanks."

"He winked at you." Jen seemed to be in shock. I briefly wondered if she had permanent brain damage and that would be all she could ever be able to say for the rest of her life. I doubt it. She'll be okay, hopefully.

"Dylan Soules," Hannah repeated. "Dylan _fucking _Soules!"

"Dylan Soules?" Sam asked, finally looking back at me, questioning.

"_Dylan Soules _winked at you," Jen said.

Hannah's eyes were still wide blue saucers. "_The _Dylan Soules."

"Okay, Dylan Soules! We all know his name, can we move on now?!" I wanted to smack them all.

"He winked _mmm mhmm—_"Hannah put a hand over Jen's mouth and leaned towards me, over Jen's lap, like she was about to tell a secret.

"Dylan So—"I cut her off with one look, and she back-tracked. "Sorry. He's, quote, hotter than the entire football team –no offense Sam – put together, unquote, and you're on a _winking basis with him._"

"Um . . . yes?"

If any of you have ever heard the phrase "saved by the bell", then I need not explain what occurred next. I grabbed my bag and stood.

"And ya'll are, quote, being crazy and making a huge deal out of one tiny little wink! Oh, unquote." I rolled my eyes at them and started down the steps. As I merged into the flood of kids heading out the doors, Jen yelled after me.

"HE WINKED AT YOU!"

* * *

"Hey!" Generally, on the streets, when someone behind you feels the need to yell at you, a smart person would resist the natural urge to look over their shoulder and instead hurry their pace, keep their head down, and get lost on the sea of people as well as possible. But seeing as this is high school we're talking about, not the 'hood, I was socially obligated to turn around and see who was desperately vying for my attention.

I didn't recognize the girl pushing several sophomores out of her way, ponytail bouncing, smile a mile wide. A creepy mile, yet still a mile. She wasn't in any of my classes, and I hadn't seen her around the halls at all. It made me slightly suspicious as to what she would need with me.

Whoever she was, she was definitely heading in my general direction. And, lo and behold, there was a certain effortlessly dismal someone clad in all black behind her, attached to her hand. Interesting. _Very _interesting.

"Max, right?" she chirped, extending her free hand. Of course, following the stereotypical assumption I'd taken from her preppy sweater and sleekly coiffed hair, her nails were perfectly groomed, the cuticles a pale pink and tipped in white. French manicure. I didn't shake her hand. Something told me I'd soil her impeccable skin. She didn't wait for an answer; I had a feeling she made it a question so as to not freak me out. "Welcome to St. Cat's! _Everyone's _talking about you."

"Comforting," I muttered under my breath. I swear I saw Fang duck his head to hide a laugh.

Ms. Manicure obviously didn't hear either of us; just let her hand drop awkwardly. "Um. Well, I'm Alyssa Waldeck, head of the Student Council. Come find me if you need anything."

Somehow, I already disliked her intensely. Maybe it's because her glossy, dark-red hair reminded me of an especially violent drug trafficker I'd had the misfortune of pissing off, earning me the ugly scar on my left hip. Or maybe it was her perkiness. Or her overdone love of blue.

"Sit with us at lunch?" she asked.

Aw, why not? I should at least give her a chance. I mean, not all redheads are evil, right?

"Sure," I smiled, only half-forced.

* * *

Wrong. Oh so very _wrong._

Redheads suck. Redheads are a drain on our society. Redheads and Max do not go together, _at all_. Okay, the second one was a little harsh, I'll admit.

But please, let me explain before you leap to judgements.

Alyssa met up with her equally-preppy friends outside of the cafeteria. Just like Barbie and her friends, each had their own color. Not even kidding you. There was a little blond one named Charity, who obviously claimed a pale green; a slightly taller blond one named Sara, entirely in, shocker, pale pink; and a completely out of place dark brunette, Naomi, who was decked completely in yellow. Down to her tights and Mary Jane's. She looked even more uncomfortable than I did, which truly is saying something.

The three girls stood as Alyssa, and by association Fang, approached, and the four girls air-kissed. Seriously. I didn't know people _actually_ did that in real life. It was like standing in the middle of an episode of _Gossip Girl_. I couldn't help but think that Nudge would've been all over it. Only less, I don't know, _dramatic_.

After initial introductions were given around (mostly for my sake, I got the feeling they _all _knew who I was), Alyssa slid into a chair at the head of the table. This in itself did not shock me. She was obviously the Mama Bear of this little troop. What did shock me, though, was when she offered me the seat to her immediate left, despite little Charity's angry stink eye.

Now, my understandings of the inner workings of cliques and high school leave something to be desired for, but I had a strong feeling that the Mama Bear offering her second-in-command position to the tiny little Baby Bear that only recently moved into the forest was _not_ typical, and liable to start some _nasty_ Bear fights, complete with claws and all.

Oh, and do note that sometime during this pretty little predicament, Fang mysteriously disappeared. Into thin air. Don't ask me how; I was too busy trying to escape without un-reparable damage to my social reputation to even notice. Stupid ghost.

Over Alyssa's shoulder I could see Nudge sitting a few tables back, Ella leaning close to her to get a better view of how I was going to handle this, and Iggy stuffing his face with their neglected fries. Typical. Nudge's face really was priceless, eyes wide, mouth open, cheeks slightly paled in worry. I glanced down at the smiling piranha in front of me and let her have a sugary smile of my own.

"Thanks, Lissa, for everything, but I think I'll be _just_ fine on my own." Tray in my hands, I eased out of her vicinity, smirking (and shaking my head in disbelief, but mostly just smirking), because her face was pretty much a dead ringer for Nudge's. Except, without the horror.

* * *

"Max, you are my idol," Ella praised from the backseat, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

I had no reply. "Hmm," was probably the best she could hope for, and that's what she got. Somehow, it didn't faze her, or Nudge's, excitement. Weird.

"Oh em gee, did you see Alyssa's face? That was hilarious, she looked like someone just cut up her credit cards 'cause they were invalid!" Nudge squealed, and I managed to pull my head out of my history textbook – because the Civil War was, actually, quite interesting— and twist around in the seat to look back at them.

"Has no one ever done something like that to her?" I asked.

They shook their heads.

"Wow." I sat back, history textbook forgotten for the moment. "Hey Fang, your girlfriend's a stuck-up spoiled brat," I said, and went back to my less-complicated-than-high-school Civil War.

Iggy guffawed, and Nudge and Ella had to lean against each other for support, they were laughing so hard. Fang's ears turned a light shade of red, where they weren't hidden under his shaggy mess of hair.

Ah, Chaos, thy servant is Max.

* * *

**There.**

**Did you like it?**

**I did not.**

**But feel free to argue :)**


	9. Chapter 9: Unbearable

**Two chapters in one month! Aren't I a work-a-holic? No, this one was easy. I had some incredible inspiration that made me write it in one night. The same one I posted Chapter Eight, actually, bit that's beside the point.**

**This one is short, I admit, but I think it reminds us that there is actually maybe might be a plot (gasp!) to this story. And it answers some questions. And begins the long journey into explaining Max's yucky past.**

**Reviews: **

**Sheild Maiden of the New World: Oh damn! I ordered it from the library and I was quite excited to read it, but it has gotten NO good reviews from anyone I've talked to. What a shame. Jeez, JP.**

**Jace'n'FangLover: Well, this chapter's for you then. :P And let's hold off on the tiny peices plan, yeah?**

**HerGoldenWings: I don't think I would mind it either. ;)**

**OuttaControl: Yes, Fang, your girlfriend sucks. And Max, you are nuts. For now, at least. ;)**

**And here is the disclaimer, since there wasn't one for the last chapter either:**

**Disclaimer: Well, my hair is long. And brown. And somewhat curly. Definitely not JP's.**

**Kisses,**

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

**Kryptonite**

**Chapter Nine: Unbearable **

**Max POV**

The smoke.

Tendrils of ashy smoke drift through the cracks in the wooden door, floating lazily up towards the ceiling. The little girl watches them, transfixed, wide hazel-leaning-towards-chocolate eyes flicking to follow every move in pure fascination. The heat increases in tiny fractions, barely noticeable. The child, for she only looks about seven, doesn't notice. She is enthralled by the smoke, the grey-black smoke, the way it moves and swirls and dances with its own tail.

She lays on her bed, pale blond hair that will darken over the next few years flipped across her pillow, staring upwards, fingers twitching on her stomach. She is patiently waiting for five o' clock when her daddy (who isn't really her daddy, and she knows this, she just likes to think it) will get home and spin her in the air before he asks her the regular questions, and she answers, and they go for a walk in the park on the corner of the street and he points out all of the birds in the trees for her. The smoke doesn't bother her, as it should have. It really is a warning, but it is too pretty to soil with the black thoughts of what it could precede.

This little girl has decided to revel in being a normal, distracted seven-year-old. So she lies there, smiling, and watches the smoke play.

When the first bead of sweat drips down her nose, she allows herself to admit that something is wrong. Suddenly, her cut-off jean shorts and t-shirt are too warm, they're suffocating, she can't seem to breathe anything that doesn't make her choke and cough. Her eyes water. Her fingers shake. She can see shadows, flickering underneath her door. It scares her.

Her brown eyes are torn away from the layer of smoke coating her ceiling, and she falls to her knees, tugging a blue backpack from under her bed. She stumbles to the door, blindly, tears starting to slide down her cheeks because there is nowhere else for them to go, and she grabs the doorknob.

She screams.

It's hot and searing and her fingers are burning whilst they twist uselessly at the knob and she can't let go because to door _won't_ _open _and she can feel the heat on the other side of the thin wood and she stumbles backwards, tripping over something she can't see, not that she cares anyway.

It's locked, and she's crying like a small child now. _It's_ _locked_.

Something crashes outside, down the hall, and she jumps. She lays her head on the floor, shaking and crying and terrified because it's so _hot_ and she thinks she knows what's going on. Her fingers clutch at the strap of her bag like iron, and she gathers every ounce of courage residing in her scrawny, child-girl body.

Somehow, she pulls herself to her feet, but falls back to her hands and knees coughing after taking a breath of the rapidly descending smoke on her ceiling. It's not pretty anymore. She is afraid.

She squeezes her pack, and crawls in the direction on her window, until she bumps against the wall. Holding her breath, she inches up the wall, her burnt fingers picking away at the edge of the window in an effort to open it. The smoke stings her eyes.

She remembers that her window doesn't open. It never has.

The inferno finally consumes her door, crashing into the room, shrieking, and she screams along with it, high soprano that shakes the foundation of the building. It's the scream of death. The light bulb in the roof explodes, showering the room with glass. She ducks, tossing her hands over her head. The glass cuts, but not deep. She leaks blood.

Her fingers beat the glass, slapping, and she adds her backpack to the mix. Nothing. The red heat is creeping closer, and the volatile child in her grabs the closest thing to her: a wooden box containing pictures she'd been collecting for him. It sails easily through the window, out into the night. The girl's pack follows it.

She hoists herself onto the edge of the hole, trying desperately to push herself through. She's a small child, yes, but it's a small window. The ragged edges of the broken glass digs into her sides, leaves more gashes on her palms. White hot heat licks at her bare legs, and she screams again, thrashing and struggling and twisting her body in every way possible, aching for freedom. The metal of the sill is scalding to the touch, and it bites into her back. She braces her hands on the sides of the building and heaves, sliding out with a sickening _slop_.

The ground is unforgiving to her when she lands. Every nerve in her skin is wailing, crying, swearing. She lets loose a few curses herself, words that no seven-year-old should know.

After dragging herself away, far enough that she can watch the rest of the regal apartment block crumble but stay out of the debris herself, she lays there. Breathing. The air is fresh, tainted slightly with the aftertaste of soot, but it is glorious. Strand of hair sit across her face, limp and dead-looking. The tips are singed. There are partially-dried tear streaks on her face; she can feel them. Her fingers throb, her back aches, her legs are tingling and rubbery. Her things have scattered across the parking lot, spilling from her bag on impact, and the wooden box is a dinted as her sanity.

She cries.

The box made it out unscathed.

_Run, Max. Run far away from the carnage, no matter how burned you are._

I'm awake, suddenly, my breathing heaving like I was still seven-years-old, crying on the pavement, dirty and defeated. My fingers shook when I buried them into my hair, pulling at the silky strands until the pain calms my beating heart. So real. Like it had been yesterday. Almost on their own accord, the hand that wasn't tugging my scalp off traced the scars down my spine. Goddamn window.

Fire. Heat. Smoke. Screaming. Terror. Sheer, absolute, mind-numbing terror. The pungent taste of imminent death hovering heavily in the corner. Screaming. Tears.

Understandably, I stayed home from school. I hid under my covers when Ella and Nudge and Iggy, Gazzy, and Angel came to question why I wasn't downstairs, ready. I told them all I was sick. I was, really. I cried for ages after I thought everyone was gone (I was wrong, but more on that later), burrowed under the thick comforter and clutching my knees.

Living the scene once was scary.

Twice is just unbearable.

* * *

**After that depressing revelation, I will make this simple:**

**Review.**


	10. Chapter 10: Passionate

**Alright.**

**I don't want to sound bitchy, but I have something to say. I received a review for the last chapter stating this story was a waste of time becasue of my sporadic and untimeable updating.**

**You're kidding me. **

Griffiths Iggy**, I have a bone to pick with you. In case this didn't quite cross your mind, I have a life OUTSIDE of fanfiction, a life I kind of have to think of before I think of here. I am coming up onto my final exams that will determine the marks going on my transcripts, my teachers are not being kind in light of said exams, I've been assigned three essays and two creative writing assignments to labor over in the last month and a half, I have sports and piano lessons and friends and family that require my attention, and I am, at best, picky about my posted worst, I am obsessive.**

**You like my writing? There's a reason it is the way it is. I beta all my own stuff, I read every single damn paragraph over at least four times forwards, and once backwards to catch any mistake because I am anal about grammatical and spelling errors. I don't want to sound cocky or self-absorbed, but my writing is the quality it is because it is my baby, and I refuse to send anything but my best out there.**

**And no, I will not admit. It isn't inexscusable.**

**For some reason, I have gotten the distinct impression that writing is writing, and a person should just appreciate the beauty of a good piece and not bitch about how you want more and how it's the author's fault for making you wait. You think its hard waiting for a chapter of your favorite story? **

**Try writing it when you have no clue how to start.**

**I will write at my pace because that is where I am comfortable, and that is where I know I am giving everything I can.**

**That is all.**

**I am deeply sorry for this rant, or if I've offended or pissed you off, but your review pissed _me _off. I stewed for days. But you did motivate me to churn out this little chapter, that really has nothing to do with the general plotline I've all but ignored in the last few chapters, but an update is an update, eh?**

**Reviews:**

**fan: Hey, shanks! :) I want to be a published author someday, so good to know you think I should be too. :P**

**OuttaControl: I have a thing for big, strange words. Sorry if I confused you. :)**

**Soaring throught the air: I agree! I promise, more kick-butt Max and fight scenes to come, it's just some bridges need to be built first. :P**

**Sheild Maiden of the New World: You have quickly become my favorite reviewer! :P And your just going to have to wait to find out all of those things! (P.S. I agree with you, fanfiction turns out stories that trump Jimmy P's new few books by a million times over! :P)**

**To all you folks who were all "OMG Fang, go comfort you sexy boy!" (in not exactly those words, but close :P), I was severely tempted, but decided it was too OOc for 1) Max to let him see her be weak, and 2) Fang to randomly cuddle the girl that pretty much threatened his life not days ago. So.**

**AND, we've hit two ten! Two hundred and ten reviews and counting. God I love you all! Thank you so much! :D**

**Disclaimer: Can I just do this for the rest of this story, cause I'm running out of clever things to put. Yeah? Okay. I don't own. There, done.**

**Kisses, **

**{-Inky-}**

**

* * *

**

****

Kryptonite

**Chapter Ten: Passionate**

**Max POV**

I had a feeling.

Usually, my feelings are scarily accurate, and I like to believe in them, which is why I drug myself out of the lovely covers of my bed to trod downstairs, peeking around the corners because that feeling, the one I have rolling in my gut, was telling me someone else was hanging around. And I learned very quickly that just because you _think_ you're in a safe place, doesn't by any standards mean you _actually are._

Using typical military form (do not ask where I learned it, I'm no rat), I covered the entire main floor and the basement, finding nothing. By now, my paranoia had goose bumps up the bare skin on my arms and my back taught. I had an insane temptation to duck back into my room, pack a bag, and slip out the window, but I didn't. I merely retrieved my pocketknife and hid it in the waistband of my sweats, and slowly inched each door on the second landing open.

These were everyone's rooms. Iggy, Gazzy, Angel, Ella, Nudge. All clear. Messy, yes, but empty of people. I checked Fang's room, with this crazy feeling that I was breaking some sort of law. It hit me hard, and I stood in the hallway, on the threshold of the doorjamb with the door open, unable to cross because this sick guilt had appeared in my stomach. But I really didn't need to cross the imaginary line holding me back; I could see the whole room from right where I was.

The walls were white. The bed was made, pristine with grey covers and a small plain grey quilt folded on the end. There was a small rug over the hardwood, grey like the sheets. The dresser top was cleaned right off, save for a blue folder and a notebook, and there were no clothes or anything on the floor. Nothing real special, your typical room devoid of any character or emphasis that anyone actually lived in it.

It was the fourth wall that screamed _Fang._ That side of the room had newspapers covering the floor, charcoal and mechanical pencils strewn everywhere, splatters of paint from half-empty jars scattered throughout the room. But that wasn't it. It was the wall itself.

It was beautiful, in its chaos. He had steadily been drawing, obviously, as there were depictions of everything and anything covering the white. I could easily pick out an alley, with soft light falling on it from a streetlamp, and another part had birds circling in the distance, ravens winding down to twine with brambles and vines connecting to a man's fingers, his face shadowed and painful. Most of it was black and white, with splashes of color accentuating the most important pieces. There were eyes, not a face, just eyes. They were real, it seemed, staring straight ahead with tears brimming, and eyelashes stuck together. Pain. I saw a hand, bloodied around the palms a bit, reaching upwards. And right in the centre, was us.

The six of us, gathered together but a separate picture of our own. Nudge was laughing, twirling a curl around her hair, Iggy with an arm over her shoulders but not looking at her. He gazed off, upwards towards the ceiling. Ella sat at their feet, leaning back, looking contented. Angel was watching over Gazzy's shoulder, smiling, as he crouched down over something in his hands.

There was something wrong and different about it, though, that made me step closer. Nudge's happy smile was false; there was depression leaking in her eyes. Iggy's smirk was bitter and tight, almost a longing frown. Ella's content was boredom, pressing her lips into a firm line. Angel was tinged with worry, and Gazzy looked too dejected, too hunched over to be natural, and I realized that this is what they looked like, beyond the bravados and upbeat masks they use. This is them, for real, not what they project to the world.

But it was me that caught my eye. I stood off to the side a little, separated, my feet planted and my arms crossed, typical ragged jeans with dried mud and blood stains down the shins and beat-up leather jacket on. I was looking over my shoulder, my forehead scrunched up like it does when I'm apprehensive, my mouth frowning. It was familiar, a face I'd seen staring back at me every day of my entire life, but somehow I didn't look like _me_. I was too pretty; my nose too straight and regal, my lips too full, my eyes too deep and mysterious, with flecks of green and gold, instead of their plain old brown. The scar I knew was under my chin was there, as well as the tiny one across my left eyebrow, but they looked like badges of honour, not reminders of failure.

Was this how Fang saw me?

Did I seem that detached, that cold, that far from the others?

It didn't escape my notice that Fang himself wasn't anywhere to be seen on this wall, but I didn't try to decipher why. Clearly, I don't understand him as well as I'd assumed myself to.

There was a palette lying on the floor, the paint spread on it still wet. I didn't notice. I also didn't hear the footsteps approaching the door.

"What are you doing?"

I didn't face him. I moved down the wall a bit, studied a figure in the far right corner with apt curiosity. He slunk into the room behind me, I felt, but made no move into my space.

There was a kneeling person, crouched almost in the foetal position, with his arms covering his bowed, shaggy-haired head. He was shirtless, with a massive pair of midnight wings sprouting from his bare back, rivulets of dark blood leaking from the joints down over his ribcage. The tips of his fingers were also stained red and buried deep in his dark hair. The entire picture as an entity was intense, passionate, drew you in until you could _feel _the torment.

I loved it.

He was studying me, from the back. I wondered if he still saw the inhumanly pretty girl he'd drawn me as, or if I'd lost my shining ambience, in his eyes.

"Did you do this?" I asked, softly, softer than I can honestly remember ever being.

". . . Yeah."

I tore my eyes away from the wall and looked over my shoulder. "It's incredible."

"Thanks." And he does something that completely throws me off: he grins. Like, wide, with teeth and everything. I was startled into smiling back, slightly.

Fang drops his paintbrush back into the pot of black paint next to his capturing of morning glory vines snaking up the pole of an old fashioned gaslight, and waves a black-splattered hand airily at me. I take it as an invitation to stick around, so I settle myself cross-legged on the neat bed and watch him.

Neither of us is really a talker, so it stays blissfully silent. Somehow, I ended up lying on my side, my head just resting on the edge of the mattress, and I studied him. He has long fingers, I suppose, that are graceful and sure of what they're doing. There is one solitary black lock that insists on tumbling into his eyes, and he always bites the inside of his cheek when working on a particularly delicate portion of his details. He has the patience of a nun and the creativity of some of the wildest, artistic minds ever to make the history books. He glanced at me once, takes in my unashamed staring, and a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. I stuck my tongue out at him, mature as I am.

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

"A couple years. How bad did they get you?" _They._ Meaning the thugs who kicked my ass because of him. Hmm. Maybe he isn't as impassively caring as he'd like me to believe.

"Minor scratches. I'm a big girl."

He snorts. "Clearly."

And that's that. We spend the afternoon in companionable silence, neither of us inquiring as to why the other was skipping school to be here. I'm sure he heard my pathetic sniffling this morning (hell, the _dead_ heard my sniffling this morning) but doesn't ask; I can't be sure whether it's because he doesn't cafe enough to know, does want to know but doesn't want to pry, or figures (wisely) that I'd probably deck him one if he did ask, but I can't help but be grateful. Like I said, once sucked, twice was infinitesimally worse. Three times would be fucking purgatory.

Mind my French, please.

At risk of sounding like a total sap, I think I can truly say that kid is a hell of a lot more confusing than I'd thought he would be. And it's slightly interesting, actually.

Oh crap, bite my tongue. I sound like a teenage soap opera.

Civility is doing nothing great to my street cred.

* * *

**Review.**

**Thanks. :]**


	11. Chapter 11: Three Strikes, I'm Out

**I apologize, firstly.**

**Secondly, I admit that I make no guarentees on where this is going. I'm sure I had a direction at one point (like when I started) but I seem to have lost interest; this story's shine and allure has ebbed away with the beginning of other projects and just life in general that's been stealing my attention.**

**I honestly haven't written ANYTHING in the last year. A few paragaphs to new original stories that never went anywhere. My writing has been bleak, I tell ya.**

_**Just like my soul.**_

**Kidding. Did I mention that I read _City of Fallen Angels _recently? Mortal Instruments quotes have been spewing out of my mouth everywhere now.**

**I can't tell you when I'll update again. I don't know if I will update again. I just don't know.**

**REVIEWS:**

**ISuckAtUsernames: Dude, when I saw that you reviewed my story and actually _liked _it, I almost peed my pants. No joke. I'm in** _l.o.v.e_** with _LoveHate Relationship_. _Fangirl-_in-love. That serious. Everyone, go read this story! **

**DeadSerious: I don't know, I mean, JP mentioned that he drew in the books. I just always see him as more of an artist than a musician, like some people. He seems like he'd be more tortured or secretly emotional or something, which is kind of an artist thing. :P also, art is an incredible outlet for emotion. Seriously, best stress reliever ever. Trust me.**

**Punk-Rebel-Chick: Yeah, I edit my own stuff and I'm no Supergirl. :P I miss stuff, and I love you guys for not caring. I know I can be kind of a snob when it comes to bad grammer, and write off stories because of it and I really shouldn't do it. So, thanks. :)**

**OuttaControl: I applaud you back in your standing ovation! I'm glad I didn't sound too bitchy because I really felt I did. :P and I believe it'll please you to know that indescribably is, in fact, a word. :)**

**The Layman: Well, is this enough streetcred for you? Read on, my friend. **

**ashpi: Oh God, _Fang_ made me want to quit reading! But of course, when _Angel _came out, I bought it and read it. Honestly, I think the first three books are the only ones that should actually count. They were the best.**

**Also, **Griffiths Iggy**, I give you every right to be upset now. It's been a while, and I seriously considered at one point during this time to just put this story up for someone else to take my jotnotes and ideas and do their thing with them. Actually, the postion is open.**

**Adoption, anyone?**

**Disclaimer: Not close to mine. :( :(**

**Kisses,**

**{-Inky-}**

**Oh, hey, 254! Holy badword!**

* * *

**Kryptonite**

**Chapter Eleven: Three Strikes, I'm Out.**

**Max POV**

So get this: I relaxed. Seriously. I honest-to-God, slumped shoulders, easy-smile _relaxed_. I allowed myself to fall into the simple routine of getting up, going to school, chatting with some friends in my classes, and then coming home carefree and normal like every other teenage girl in this side of the city. I avoided Anne with every skill I possibly had (which is more than a few, if I must say myself), played Scrabble with Angel after dinner, and watched Fang paint his feelings onto his wall after the kids had gone to bed. I'd even taken an indefinite amount of time off from the bar. And I didn't even realize what was happening.

Strike one for Max.

A few weeks went by, and September vanished and October conquered, and my mind was on anything but the dates. The note at the bottom of the trunk in my room, buried underneath some blankets and my Converse (somehow Nudge had converted me to flats –insanity, I know), was completely forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

Strike two.

So, here I am, laughing with this girl from my last period English, whose name I think was Kelsey, and I couldn't find it in me to look around and check the perimeters, plan escape routes, profile the crowds, anything. It was like I'd gotten so used to being around people who weren't psycho and paranoid like me, that I'd _become_ one of them. The carefree normals.

Strike three. I'm out.

I walked down the steps on my way home. Iggy was sick today, Nudge had cheer practice so Fang was hanging around until she's done (most likely making out with Red), and so I consented to just walk the eleven blocks home. Headphones in my ears, head down, I blended into the crowd like nothing, but I wasn't watching. I was sloppy. And sloppy does not cut it.

I turned the corner, flipping through my playlists, when a body blindsided me from the left. My iPod went flying and I slammed into the concrete, skidding mostly on my shoulders. And my brain panics.

I fucking panic. Me. The girl who's survived Hell.

Like a child, I cower and attempt to shield my face with my hands, but my attacker has them gripped in his hands. His ragged fingernails are digging into the soft flesh of my wrists. Stupidly, I try to pull away, which only makes him clench his fists harder. I think it's this pain that snaps me back to reality. The last few seconds flash across my eyes, my weakness and predictability and I see pure hot rage. Mostly at myself for believing things were different, that I could lose myself and pretend I wasn't part of this anymore, but also at the asshole attempting to put his fingers straight through my wrists.

Right about now, most people would be describing how their vision goes red with rage and they find, deep inside themselves, an impressive burst of strength to spring up and beat the living hell out of their attacker, snarling and looking like a total BAMF.

This is a lie, nine times out of ten.

In real life, about sixteen scenarios where I end up either slamming this guy's head against the brick wall of the alley or with my fingers wrapped around his pudgy throat fly through my mind, each making me angrier than the last, until it's like my body quits. My arms go slack from around his arms and my eyes close. Exhausted. The sudden lack of struggle sends me hurtling to the ground, where the back of my head connects painfully with pavement, as he lets go. A strangled groan works its way out of my throat, mostly from the lack of air and the stinging resonating from my skull. His eyes, a watery blue, get big.

I find it in me to sweep my legs out, catching him just below the kneecaps, so that he stumbles for a moment. I'm buying time, so I make effort to sit up and crawl over to grasp an old broom handle lying next to the dumpster behind me. I'm still on my hands and knees when he recovers. A well placed kick to the middle of my back, and this time my face finds the ground. Blood trickles over my top lip, a stream from my nose. I can taste the rust.

He goes to slam his boot into my ribs, but I roll and he gets my stomach instead, making me grunt and double up. I'm practically fetal on the dirt, and I can feel his condescending smirk growing. The third kick comes, but never connects. Someone tackles him from the left, flying farther back into the brick alley, further from the busy street. I gasp for air for a while, listening to the two of them struggle on the ground before I push myself to my feet. My fingers still clutch the broom handle, so I use it to support myself. My vision hasn't quite straightened out from the first head-banging I took, and my nose is still bleeding. Bruises are beginning to form, I can feel them, but I manage to make the steps over to the two figures, both dressed in black, grappling on the ground.

One is brunette, and the other blonde. I don't even realize I've done it until the broom handle cranks the blonde one ever the head, and he immediately collapses on top of the other one, the darker haired one. I stand there, panting and sweating, strands of hair falling out of my ponytail and into my face, unmoving as the other guy pushes Blondie away and struggles to his feet.

He was short. I mean, I'm pretty tall for a girl of my weight and age, but he was _short; _eye level with my heart, which meant he could probably see it uncharacteristically pounding out of my chest. Curly brown hair. Solid blue eyes, high cheekbones, with just a little baby fat. Nothing stood out to me, nothing that screamed _familiar. _But he was staring at me like I was the Messiah, come to save his soul or something.

We stood there for a long moment, just watching. Caution saturated the air, and his dark eyes remained stationed on my brown ones. I refused to loosen my grip on my makeshift weapon, or lower my offensive stance. I was done with the risks. My guard wasn't going anywhere. Blood trickled down a small cut on his forehead. Around us, outside the tense air in the alley, the sounds of the world continued like nothing had happened. I felt like puking. I was sure I had a concussion, minor if anything.

He blinked, and backed a few steps back.

I opened my mouth, unsure of what would come out: Hostile Max from the streets, or just Slightly Grumpy Max from the Martinez house. I didn't find out. He took off up a fire escape and over the roof of a building, and I couldn't summon the energy to give chase. He didn't try to kill me. I let it go. I had bigger things to worry about.

The walk home was long, even longer than it would've been if I hadn't spent the whole time running tabs on every person who so much as brushed by me. I guess being attacked in the middle of the day really sets a girl on edge. I'm sure more than half the time someone was staring at the blood still trickling slightly from my nose, which I'd done my best to clean up.

Of course, I thought getting home would mean I would be given a chance to relax, scrub the blood off myself, maybe reset my nose so it heals without a crook.

No such luck.

Naturally.

* * *

**I love you guys for sticking around.**

**:)**


End file.
